


Some Thread to Sew the Wound

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Break Up, Denial of Feelings, First Meetings, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Minor Violence, Original Character Death(s), Past Relationship(s), Period-Typical Racism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Series, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-03-29 08:03:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 120,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3888634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos and Aramis are best friends. They weren't always that way, though. </p><p>Five years ago, there's some things to work past, after all: defensiveness and intimidation, a traumatizing mission to Savoy, the worst breakup imaginable, and that low-burning attraction neither is willing to act on just yet. And that fear that, maybe, it'll all disappear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be a oneshot and then it just kind of... exploded beyond me. So, here it is. Another fic about Porthos and Aramis meeting.  
> Note that while the fic is portamis primarily, there will be other pairings featured or hinted at, most relevant being Marsac/Aramis. 
> 
> I'll add more warnings in the additional tags as they become necessary.

It takes only one step. 

One step, and he’s in the garrison. One step after another, carrying him through the gate. It’s such a simple matter and yet there is a weight to it, and for half a moment Porthos can’t really breathe around the sheer relief he feels. It could be any other moment for any other man on any other day – and yet this, alone, is his. 

He’s joined the King’s Musketeers at the Captain’s urging but it is still his own joy he feels when he walks through the gate. He remembers the day he first met the captain: stretching out after some drilling from the infantry, his hands fumbling to clean his gun and mostly keeping to himself. His shoulder was still giving him problems then, after a particular skirmish that left him jostled and shaken, lacking the proper protection from his fellow soldiers because of his own lackluster attempts at staying in proper formation. Still, he knew his reputation: one of reckless abandon, a steady fighter, one who could hold up an army all his own. He’d spoken with the Captain, then, and the next day he was offered his position amongst the Musketeers. An honor, the Captain had told him. 

Porthos hardly needed to be convinced of it. It’s what he’s been waiting for, what he’s wanted since he joined the infantry in the first place, all those years ago. He’d expected it would take a few years more before he could done the fleur-de-lis – but he’s hardly going to reject the offer from the captain of the Musketeers himself. Not now. Not when the Captain took particular care to comment on his strength and his resourcefulness, a thin but present thread of pride in his voice. Porthos flushes at the memory, warmed by it. Such a small thing and yet it brings him such pleasure. He almost smiles. 

Stepping into the garrison now, for the first time, the pauldron new and shiny on his shoulder, Porthos looks around and drinks it all in for the first time – his new home, his new domain. He knew this is what he wanted – and yet he hadn’t expected, really, to feel this way. He steps into the garrison and it feels like he _belongs_. No one is there to greet him, but he’d picked a time between rotations so he isn’t surprised. He prefers it that way, in the end – better to stake one’s spot before facing down the long, steady stares, the whispered words of his status, his skin, his savagery displaced so easily in the step of one foot, the glance of one eye. He knows it well, and won’t allow himself to believe it won’t be the same here, no matter what the captain promises. He is a stranger here. But still, he has never felt so sure of his own choices than in this moment. 

He is meant to be here. 

There are a few new recruits ambling around the garrison – they have the look about them, young and untried, early career soldiers who won their place by being the second and third sons of nobility or merchant class, close enough to warrant a sponsorship from the king himself. They are unscarred and untrained – and Porthos knows that it isn’t just the color of his skin that marks him as different from them. He’s run away from a life that would see him rot from the inside out. They don’t yet know what it is to struggle, what it is to suffer. He doubts they’ll last through the training. But that’s the way it goes. Some men aren’t meant for soldiery. Some men weren’t born fighting. 

They don’t say much to Porthos but Porthos says nothing to them in turn. He’s long since learned that his words are ill-received and it’s all the better to prove himself in training or on the battlefield – to prove himself through his actions and his strength. To prove them all wrong. He’s done it before and he can do it again. 

He steps across the garrison and climbs the stairs, heading towards where the Captain had told him his office is – told him to check in as soon as he arrived. He doesn’t carry any belongings with him save for his own weapons he’s purchased his first year in the infantry. The new leather of his pauldron creaks as he lifts his hand and knocks on the captain’s door. 

The Captain calls him in and as he steps through the door, Treville looks up and smiles with a quiet, “Ah, Porthos.”

And even that makes him feel that he’s welcomed. It’s a strange feeling, to be remembered, to be welcomed. The Captain looks at him as if he has known him all his life, and he wonders if all the musketeers feel as he does in this moment – trapped under his gaze but swelling with pride at the recognition, slight as it might be. 

“Yes, Captain,” he says and stands a little straighter, his voice light over the words. He’s meant to be here. He knows that beyond a doubt. 

 

-

 

The first time Aramis _sees_ Porthos (a name he does not yet know) is not the first time he actually meets him. He’s already running late for the start of his day rotation, patrolling the market street with Marsac and Mathieu. He wakes up with the daylight, disheveled from the night before. And Marsac, the traitor, already gone with the morning light – likely waking before the dawn and finding it _funny_ to let Aramis sleep more than to be gracious and practical and wake him as well so they might get ready together. Aramis topples out of his quarters, hair in disarray and shoving his feet into his boots, only to realize belatedly that his buttons are misbuttoned and bunching up around his blue sash in a way that isn’t necessarily attractive. He tries to make himself at least somewhat presentable, but soon enough gives up and just shrugs into his coat and lets it be what it is. 

He’s searching for Marsac. He’s moving, perhaps, but then he’s halting – and then he’s staring. It isn’t his fault, really. He can’t be held responsible for stopping right in his tracks. Not when he’s completely and utterly distracted. 

The new recruits are training, and one in particular catches his eye. Aramis stands there, perhaps somewhat stupidly mid-step before he rights himself, and watches as the new recruit picks up his fellow brother like it’s the easiest thing in the world, his face darkened in his determination, and tosses him over his shoulder as if he weighs nothing at all. There’s sweat on his brow, the loose-fitting shirt clinging to his arms. He breathes out loud and long, low through his mouth, hands braced on his thighs once he’s done – and sweat dampens his open collar, a pendant hanging in the hollow of his throat as he stares down at these recruits – and then stands again, back straight, his eyes dark – challenging, firm and steady. His power is immense, impossible to miss even without the demonstration. 

Aramis realizes he’s staring, but he can’t even care. His hip juts out, and he leans against the supporting pillar to the stables where his movement was first arrested. Better to watch, after all – and today’s task is completely forgotten in lieu of inspection. A horse ninnies behind him, but he’s watching the new recruit. He watches as the new recruit’s hands flex and he tosses his chin up. There’s no smile on his lips, but there’s the hint of one – a firm and unwavering confidence, a steady defiance to prove himself. God above, does Aramis find it hard to breathe in that moment.

He keeps where he is – watching as this new recruit takes down one right after the other, like it’s easy, like it’s _simple_. Aramis knows he’s flushed. There’s a crowd around the new recruits, some hoots and goads, some claps and well-placed praise that makes the new recruit swell under his defiance. Aramis can’t look away. Doesn’t want to look away. 

He realizes that he’s very late now, that he’s lingered too long – because he feels Marsac at his side, like a shadow. Marsac shifts at his side and Aramis manages the briefest of glances towards him. He’s holding the day’s mission report in hand and he lifts his eyebrows in silent question to Aramis’ delay. He doesn’t have an answer for Marsac, his chin dipping down as he watches the new recruits – or the one in particular. 

He watches him straighten, roll his shoulder – the flash of a scar cutting across his chest as he shifts – and then he tips his chin up again, bold and unrelenting. Facing down those who should be his brothers like they are enemies. Aramis almost tuts, but he has to bite back any betraying sound – knowing how strangled he’ll sound if he were to try to speak, not with the way the new recruit is hunching his shoulders, widening his stance, bulking himself up. Part of him wants to move up, thread through the people, challenge him himself – if only to feel those hands on him, if only to test that strength for himself. It’d be worth the bruises. Aramis would trace over them that night and think—

“Aramis,” Marsac says beside him, as if Aramis needs reminding that he’s standing there. Which, frankly, he does – so arrested by the new recruit that the entire world seems to melt away around him. 

“Do you know the new recruits yet?” Aramis asks Marsac, his eyes only on Porthos – a name he does not yet know but will soon enough. He is breathless, knows that his desire is evident – but also knows that it is only Marsac who looks at him now. That, at least, is a secret they both share. 

“Not yet,” Marsac says, sounding distracted, disinterested, his eyes passing over all of the recruits and lingering on none. How strange, that this recruit shouldn’t capture all attention so fully as he does Aramis’. But then again, Aramis has always _appreciated_ better than most. Marsac adds, “They’re still training. They won’t get missions for a few weeks hence.” 

“No,” Aramis agrees, watches the way the new recruit rolls his shoulders, rolls up his sleeves – his hands large and merciless. Aramis licks his lips. He watches the way the new recruit touches at his cheek with the simple tap of his finger – a goading, a tease, a challenge. _Hit me right here,_ the gesture says. Aramis knows his eyes have darkened considerably because, finally, Marsac scoffs. 

“Come on,” he says, and his own voice sounds dark – but not with desire. He knows he’s upset him, knows that Marsac has fallen into jealousy. But Aramis can’t tear his eyes away as, finally, the new recruit claims another victory.

He is merciless, and there is no pleasure in his eyes as he slams his boot down against his fellow brother’s chest. Aramis almost cringes in sympathy, but can’t help but envision being beneath that boot. He’s claimed his victory and he raises his chin up, looking over the crowd – hooting and hollering. 

His eyes pass over Aramis and carry on, not lingering, seeing nothing of significance. Still, Aramis watches him.

“Come on,” Marsac says again, angrier this time. Aramis follows him, looking over his shoulder one last time as the new recruit collects his coat from the ground and shrugs it on, stamping his feet and moving away. Aramis blinks once. He breathes out. He straightens again and looks back at Marsac. 

 

-

 

Porthos does not remember the first time he sees Aramis. He’s tried to remember, in the years following their friendship – if only to satisfy Aramis’ own curiosity. But when he tries to remember it, there’s nothing – he remembers so little about the early weeks of his time in the regiment, filled with loneliness and defensiveness. He does not remember the first time he was aware of Aramis as anything other than another musketeer in a crowd of men. 

What Porthos does remember is the first time they ever spoke. 

The first time is this: Porthos looks up from the barrel of his gun and finds Aramis (a name he does not yet know) standing there, impish smile and dark eyes. And Porthos is left, suddenly, unsure what to do – up close he is impossible to ignore, and there is something about him that makes him still for half a moment before he clamps back down on it and pushes on. It’s the first time that someone’s approached him for anything beyond cursory explanations of what the training exercise for the day will be or a passing comment on his skills. He’s been here for a few weeks now and he understands the ropes well enough – but still, a man standing there and smiling at him throws him more than any training exercise could. 

“You should really keep both eyes open,” he says in greeting, somehow smugly satisfied in a way that makes Porthos’ hackles go up, leaves him bristling even if there is no insult passing his lips. 

He’s kneeling in the dirt, before a box that he’s rested the gun on for support, and now he regrets the position. He feels like he’s bowing down with this man towering above him. It is too much like servitude. 

Porthos thinks of all the things he could say – from scathing to dismissing to grateful – and he settles for a soured silence instead, his lips thinned out, his anger hissing out through his teeth with each breath. He just concentrates on breathing before this man can speak the words he’s likely dying to say: that a brute with such hands can’t hope to handle the delicacy of the weaponry, that his lack of training is a blatant disregard for the art of war, that it’s a wonder they let him out of the stables. No one has said it to his face yet, but he’s been expecting it – expecting that the icy politeness will eventually ripple over into outward aggression. He’s itching for a fight. He’s ready for it. 

“It will help your aim,” the new man continues, however, overly pleasant – almost downright chipper. Porthos doesn’t relax, but he continues, “You favor your right eye but at least to start you should keep your eyes open and focused on your talent. Don’t worry about the musket, just focus on the target. Let your own hand guide you.” 

Porthos breathes out once and tilts his chin up, gives the man a narrowed glance. He says nothing for a long moment, merely stares him down. Then, slowly, he straightens – rising to his full height, taller than him, wider. Stronger. He doesn’t back down from Porthos, but rather meets his gaze with something like admiration in his eyes. Porthos refuses to focus on that. Refuses to focus on the betraying part of himself that curls up inside of him to receive such a look.

Instead, the man’s smile just widens and he tips his hat back a little so he can look at Porthos evenly, studying his face. His hair is falling across his face, brushing at his shoulders, and his beard is trimmed neatly, his lips quirked up in a half-smile, knowing and secretive. Porthos wants to scowl and finds he can’t, so he settles for something more understated – narrows his eyes and keeps his chin tilted back, hands slack at his side but ready to defend himself. 

“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” he says, cheerful enough and continuing on as if Porthos is not blatantly staring him down, “I’d give you my full name but it’s a bit of a mouthful. So let’s just settle on first names, shall we? My name is Aramis.” 

Aramis, then. He looks at Porthos, expectant. Porthos feels his shoulders stiffen up. He keeps his movements deceptively light, never letting on the deep measure of his own unhappiness, his own frustration. Never let them see you sweat. He takes a deep breath, feels himself spread out to his widest stance, intimidating. Aramis looks at him, smooth and undisturbed. 

“And your name?” Aramis finally asks when he decides Porthos is taking too long to answer, and his smile is gentled – like they are old friends, like he is finding him again after years of separation. It is intimate and knowing. It leaves Porthos wanting to respond with insincerity, with cruelty. He says nothing. Aramis only looks amused, though, and asks, “Do you speak?” 

Porthos bristles. There is no cruelty in his words, but it reminds him too much of times in the past – reassurances that animals cannot speak, that brutes have little use for civilized language. His expression must darken considerably because the light, playful expression on Aramis’ face melts away into something feeble, more uncertain – apologetic. 

“I meant – will you speak?” He pauses, then regains his footing, his voice light again as he adds, “It’s terribly boring to have a one-sided conversation.” 

“It’s Porthos,” he answers, finally, wondering if this will be enough to silence him – if this will be enough for him to be left in peace. 

“Porthos,” Aramis repeats, tasting his name in his mouth. He closes his eyes, as if to focus his concentration – the look of a man who’s just bitten into a peach he finds especially delicious. His lips curve up into a charming smile. Porthos hates that he shivers. 

Porthos doesn’t back down, though, doesn’t slacken his posture at all – doesn’t let the glare ease from his brow. But there is something in the way he says his name that makes him find it difficult to breathe. It makes him want to slump forward, find solace, find peace – find something akin to home. He clamps down on the urge, but the desire tickles there at the back of his neck all the same, a whispered breath against the shell of his ear. He wonders how wide Aramis’ smile can spread. 

Aramis doesn’t back down, either. It is perhaps the first time in his life that someone has held his gaze for this long without faltering. Not even Flea or Charon could stand to look at him when he was like this. Instead, Aramis just tilts his head and observes him, absorbs him – seems to breathe him in, his smile light across his lips. 

He’s been here for weeks now, and he has grown used to being ignored. There is a thin layer of distrust and distaste between him and the new recruits, and the more seasoned veterans avoid most of the new recruits – biding their time, waiting to see if these men will last. Amongst the other recruits, though, they avoid Porthos for the most part. They avoid his gaze, avoid his path, avoid his hand. He’s used to it. Part of him prefers it, now. At least none have called him a dog or a mongrel. 

Porthos hooks his pistol back against his belt and Aramis looks disappointed. “Don’t stop on my account, Monsieur. I was hoping I might try my hand with yours.” 

Porthos looks at him for a long moment, his free hand straying over the hilt of his sword, waiting still, perhaps, for Aramis’ ulterior motives to be known – waiting for the words, waiting for the attack, ready for it still. It doesn’t come, and his fingers twitch at his side, waiting for an excuse to shut them all up, to shut everyone up thoughts-first. 

“Not interested,” he finally says. He is resigned to as much – he sees the smile and it is distrust he finds, a surety that he is being mocked. He does not know Aramis but knows better than to trust a kind smile. 

Aramis tuts a little, the smallest cluck of his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and even that is distracting. Porthos’ lips thin out but he doesn’t look away, doesn’t back down – he won’t be the one to break the point of contact. 

“It really won’t do for you to close off like this,” Aramis says, pleasantly enough, but all Porthos can hear are barbs, venom – the assessment, heavy and sure, that he does not _belong_ , that he is not wanted. 

“And why should my affairs concern you?” Porthos all but growls, still waiting, still waiting for the _mongrel_ , the heavy slur of _savage_ and _barbarian._

“You are of the King’s Musketeers,” Aramis says, as if it is that easy, as if it is obvious, “You are my brother. Should I not be involved in my brother’s life?” 

Porthos thinks back to the Court, before he can quite stop the thought. Thinks of Flea and Charon. There was a brotherhood amongst thieves, although one without honor. Despite that, despite the necessity of it all, he knows that Flea and Charon cared for him – to an extent. In the end, they wouldn’t go with him. In the end, he thinks they must not think of him at all, that he loved them far more than they loved him. He loved them, but not enough to stay. He thinks of the infantry: how it was a unit, but no brotherhood; every man was unspeakably there for his own self, his own gain and fortune. 

He looks at Aramis now, a _brother_ , and thinks of all those who shy away from his glance, who look down at him because he is different. 

“You don’t know me,” Porthos says, and though he shows no anger, he knows his voice colors with the rage he’s carried all these years. The sadness he wishes he could disguise. 

“We’ll all be your brothers,” Aramis continues with a security that Porthos wants to believe and can’t. “You should not snub the gift so lightly. That look of yours would scare off many a man who might otherwise approach you in friendship. You expect them to avoid you – but perhaps you give them no choice?”

Perhaps Aramis has a point, but still the anger tears through him suddenly, white-hot and consuming, leaving him charred and broken in its wake. He tenses up immediately, and the sudden change in his demeanor – from distant to enraged – must be obvious enough, because Aramis’ face ripples into one of surprise, but not fear. He stares down Porthos as he swells in his anger, takes a step towards Aramis – actually debates striking him, if only to prove to him how wrong he is. But he stills his own anger, bottles down that aggression – there is no point to it. There is no benefit in proving himself the brute.

“Why should I want their friendship?” he snaps out before he can second-guess it. 

Aramis says something more but Porthos doesn’t quite hear it – he makes a face that might have been an aborted attempt at a smile, but it is a snarl like a cornered animal – a comparison he hates, but is apt – and he wants to shrug it off, wants to stay calm, wants to just break down and _accept_ the brotherhood he’s been promised. But allowing it, hoping for it – it’d be too painful if that, too, were snatched from him. 

Aramis continues to speak and Porthos hones in on the words as he says, “I meant no offense.” 

“You don’t know me,” Porthos says again, his voice suddenly neutral, distant. He closes his eyes once – breathes out. Resigns himself, not for the first time, to the life he knows he will always live. “Don’t assume to know what’s best for me.” 

He storms away at that – and tells himself that it is not retreat, it is safety. Aramis, perhaps, means no harm. But he has no desire to stay and see that smile, to hear those words – to think of that charity and see only pity and compassion. It benefits no one. Least of all him.

 

-

 

This is not the man he wants to be. Porthos knows himself, knows that even in his darkest moments in the Court, he could laugh and smile. There are moments out here, too, where it can be so. Sometimes, though. Sometimes it’s just easier to be like this, to protect himself in this way. But the anger is so fierce – and it always leaves him shaking in its wake. 

Once the rage cools down enough to something low and thrumming, the same pain he’s carried for years, Porthos goes to the Captain’s office, knocks once and waits for permission to enter. 

Treville is behind his desk, sorting through papers, hunched over into his shoulders. He looks up when Porthos blusters in, but he says nothing and merely lifts his brow. 

“Captain,” Porthos says in lieu of an apology for appearing without summons. 

“Porthos,” Treville answers in kind. “Are you settling in?” 

Porthos realizes, distantly, that he has not had a chance to speak with the captain since his recruitment. He doesn’t wish to hesitate, but the hesitation must play in his face anyway because Treville straightens, gives him a long and steady look. Porthos says nothing, can’t speak to how well he has ‘settled’ if only because he is still in the process of settling – oil against water. He hovers and skims across the surface, but remains purposefully, painfully separate from the rest of the recruits, and the soldiers already amongst the musketeers’ ranks. He leaves his hands slack at his side, his expression purposefully neutral – blank. 

“Yes,” he says, and they both know it is a lie. Porthos does not need to speak it for Treville to know. He says it anyway. 

“These things take time,” Treville says, and he looks down at the papers on his desk. He folds some over, shuffles others together. It is a delay tactic – Porthos can recognize it as such, knew it well in his old captain who would do such a thing whenever he was searching for justification for always, always putting Porthos on the front-lines, in the surest path of danger, his more trusted soldiers safely behind him. Some would call that an honor. Others would call it collateral. Treville looks up, and frowns. “You’ve worked hard to make it this far.” 

Porthos is taken aback and just looks at Treville for a moment. He blinks once. He breathes in – and then breathes out. Then he nods, barely a fraction of a movement, more curious for what Treville will say next more than anything else. 

“It is understandable to have your doubts,” Treville begins.

“I don’t,” Porthos interrupts. “Sir.” He looks down at his boots, twists his mouth up into something unpleasant, a grimace. He looks at Treville, steady, and says, “This is what I’ve wanted ever since I – ” He swallows and corrects, “Since the Musketeers were founded.” 

Treville looks at him, and in a moment he seems too knowing – and Porthos wonders if he _does_ know. Or if he merely suspects where Porthos has come from by how he looks, how he behaves – the way he inhales food like it will be his last meal, the way he arrived to the garrison with no belongings. The way he looks, worn down, edged over. 

“I can have a word with them,” Treville offers, and his shoulders are a little less straight, a little less professional. Of course Treville would have picked up on what Porthos does not say. 

He is filled with a sudden shame. 

Not for the first time, Porthos finds himself surprised by the generosity and the thoughtfulness of his captain, a kind of stunning decency that, really, shouldn’t be noteworthy. But still, it feels too much like favor, too much like charity. Too much like pity. 

He thinks of Aramis, scolding him for his withdrawal. The anger returns, a twist of white-hot heat in the pit of his stomach. He smothers it. He thinks of Aramis’ smile, and there is a sure tug of heat in his stomach that has absolutely nothing to do with anger. He smothers that, too. 

He shakes his head, dismissive, and says, “I’ve faced far worse in my life, Captain.” 

Instead of the words reassuring him, a clear dismissal of the truth lurking beneath the surface, the captain’s expression shifts – into something like regret. Porthos puzzles over the expression but it’s gone in a breath, and Porthos wonders if he saw it at all. 

“Of course,” Treville says, and tucks his hands behind his back, standing straight again – once again the captain. “These men are your brothers, Porthos. They should treat you as such.” 

Porthos nods, and doesn’t have the heart to tell the captain that he isn’t sure if that’s possible. He thinks again of Aramis and his words. He shifts on his feet, frowns. 

“I don’t expect any special treatment,” Porthos says, suddenly. “I’m a recruit. I’m not whining to my captain.” 

“Then what brings you here?” Treville asks, not unkindly. 

“Orders,” Porthos says. 

Treville’s hand falls on Porthos’ shoulder, the one where his pauldron sits, still shining and still new, but undoubtedly his. That, more than anything, is what makes it worth it to Porthos. He smiles at his captain and nods when the captain nods in turn. 

This isn’t something he’s about to regret. 

“In that case… I expect to see that stable mucked out by the end of the day.” 

Porthos nods once and turns to leave – at least grateful for something to do with his hands, something to do to direct his anger. 

Porthos does as he’s instructed – he’s used to mucking out the stables. He’d done it for years in the infantry, even long after he was no longer the freshest of the group and it would logically move on to the new recruits. This, though, isn’t some kind of blood punishment – it is the captain giving out orders. This is just honest work for the honest musketeer, and he does his work in peace. The horses, at least, have nothing to say. And the other musketeers who pass by pay him no mind – just another fixture, nothing more than another horse in the stable. 

There’s security, though, in the unfamiliar slide of the leather against his shoulder. It is security. It is brotherhood perhaps someday, loyalty and equality. Perhaps. But it is also a steady pay and a stable position. It means he will never, ever have to return to where he came from. He can bury it and leave it behind. 

His shovel digs into the hay, and he scoops his way through the droppings. The smell doesn’t bother him as much as it might have before. 

 

-

 

Aramis falls onto his bed, sprawling out beside Marsac, who already sits there sharpening his sword with a whetstone. It takes a moment, but once Marsac glances at his expression he must be able to read Aramis’ sadness and agitation, because he sets the weaponry aside and turns to look at him, waiting. 

“I upset someone,” Aramis says as explanation and Marsac raises his eyebrows. 

Aramis thinks, bitterly, of the way Porthos’ face twisted up – as soon as he’d known he’d said the wrong thing. Anger, resentment bloomed across his face so suddenly it’d knocked the wind from Aramis. But, through it all, Aramis could only think of pain, of longing, of a certain kind of surety that he would never belong. How sad it must be, to know that with such conviction. 

Aramis looks up at Marsac. “There’s blood on your cheek.”

“Sparring,” Marsac says by way of explanation. Aramis shrugs a little and sits up, his own sadness forgotten in lieu of unfolding Marsac’s handkerchief and wiping it across Marsac’s cheek, gentled and slow. His fingers brush along his jaw, over the bridge of his nose. He thumbs at his lip. 

“I hate being disliked,” Aramis says, and it comes out almost like a whine. 

Marsac’s lips quirk up. Aramis feels the movement against his thumb, and when Marsac speaks, it is only a fraction above a whisper, “Not everyone can be liked.” 

“But I’m likeable, aren’t I?” Aramis asks. 

“Clearly not to everyone,” Marsac says in a way that might be teasing but just makes Aramis want to whine louder. 

Aramis frowns instead, wipes the handkerchief one last time over Marsac’s face and then brushes the hair away from his face and hands the cloth back to his friend. He studies Marsac’s face, but thinks of Porthos’ instead – the slump of his nose, the fullness of his mouth. His eyes must darken because Marsac makes only a soft, sacrificing sound. 

“Do I even want to know who you’re thinking about?” Marsac sighs out, and there is a thin thread of jealousy in his voice that Aramis has never been able to goad away from him. But Marsac has always known who Aramis is. 

Aramis leans in and kisses him, if only so he doesn’t have to talk about it. 

 

-

 

Aramis searches for Porthos again – but over the course of the next few days he is bogged down with actual duties, and Marsac’s mercurial attentions, and it is not until early the next week that he sees Porthos again. 

When he does find Porthos, it’s late in the afternoon. Late enough that most will be moving off to their taverns or their quarters or their mistresses’ homes, and shadows slip here and there, darkening the garrison’s courtyard as the sun dips down beyond the line of the Seine. Porthos is pulling the saddle from a horse and hanging it over its keep. Aramis allows himself a moment to appreciate Porthos in this moment – hauling the saddle around like it’s nothing, his shoulders bunching beneath his coat, moving with a kind of grace and fluidity that beguiles his actual physique, and yet suits him perfectly. 

The apology is on his lips – he’s ready to speak it, to beg forgiveness for his missteps. Aramis is not so proud that he cannot admit when he is wrong – but perhaps it is more than that. Aramis is used to being liked, of course, and at most he can tolerate being an annoyance. Animosity and actual hatred has never sat right with him – his own brand of charm usually doing the trick to guide him along with people, at least on a surface level. 

There are a few stragglers in the garrison – and they call out cheerful goodbyes to Aramis as they slip out into the night to get up to general mischief of drinking or women, or both. Aramis nods his head and tips his hat to a few of them. They pass by, and there’s that same icy, stubborn indifference between these new recruits and veterans with Porthos – they pass by as if they do not see him there in the shadows, slinging a resting blanket over the mare he’s been tending to. Aramis feels a hot flush of anger and shame – on behalf of the brothers who would shun a man they should be embracing. If Porthos notices or it bothers him, he gives no sign. Aramis is sure he’s noticed. How could he not? 

“Porthos,” he calls, cheerful, taking a step towards the stables – the apology on his lips. 

The suspicious look that his call earns might have been discouraging to any other, enough to make any other recoil. It just spurs Aramis on. Porthos does not back away, nor does he shy from Aramis as he approaches him. The look he gives him is distrustful, but then after a moment it seems to soften at the edges – and he looks away before Aramis can properly examine it. Aramis leans back against one of the posts to the stable entrance and watches Porthos finish his work. He smells of the stables, but in a pleasant way. How strange that there should be pleasantness in that. 

He knows he should apologize. Instead he finds himself saying, “Spar with me.” 

For a moment, there is no sound – save for the distant laughter of some men beyond the garrison walls. A horse stamps her foot back within the stables. Porthos breathes out through his teeth, a low whistle of breath. 

Porthos stares at him, an open look of bitterness flashing across his features before he schools his expression back into neutrality. Calculation. Studying Aramis – trying to work him out. Many a man have tried. But Aramis saw that bitterness there, all the same, and something twists up inside of him. He does really dislike to be hated. 

“What, now?” Porthos asks, which is not a _no_. He looks around the empty, silent courtyard, cast in shadows from the sinking sunset – and he gestures with his hand, almost mocking, as if Aramis is simple. Perhaps he is simple to Porthos, whose face scrunches up with his own inner thoughts Aramis will not be privy to. The mare behind him stamps her hoof and nickers once. 

“No time like the present, yes?” Aramis asks, cheerfully enough. “The evening is yet young. Unless you have somewhere you need to be?”

Porthos’ face twists up into something unpleasant and his posture becomes defensive. Aramis makes no move, aside from lifting his eyebrows in a silent invitation – Porthos seems more a man of action than words. A mere apology will do little now. He can tell that much. 

Porthos continues to gaze at him, and then looks up at the sky – likely asking God how he could be in the company of such a fool – and then removes his hat and drops it over the hook meant for horse reigns. 

“Let’s go, then,” Porthos says, shucking off his coat easily. Aramis tries not to stare at his forearms, as innocuous as that part of him might be. Aramis follows suit, however, removing his coat and belts, his sash and his weapons. He rolls up his shirtsleeves and watches as Porthos does the same, mirroring him. 

“I saw you that first day,” Aramis says, voice light and playful – it carries around the silent garrison and Aramis kicks out his feet, kicking away stray dirt and loose hay as he gains his footing, taking his stance. He claps his hands once, smiling at Porthos, who watches him in a way Aramis imagines a lion would its prey. Aramis tries not to feel that thick, sudden lurch in his gut he believes may very well be lust when Porthos’ eyes darken on him, studying him. 

Porthos looks up at the sky again, and shifts a little, moving down along the courtyard. When Aramis turns to watch him, he has to blink around the low-hanging sun in his eyes. Perhaps not questioning God after all, then. 

“Yeah?” Porthos says, and it’s more a grunt than an invitation for conversation – but that has hardly ever stopped Aramis. 

“Indeed,” Aramis chirps out. He squints around the sunlight. “You made it look easy – the way you took down the rest of the recruits.” 

Porthos tilts his chin up, hunching into himself. Aramis supposes the look would be intimidating, but all he can feel is a deep thrill that being on the receiving end of such a look. What a force Porthos must be. 

Porthos plants his foot and swings forward – that same fluidity and grace working in his favor as he swipes at Aramis. The movement is lazy, but calculated – testing Aramis’ reaction, his speed. Aramis ducks from the curve of his fist, tries to look up at him but the sun hasn’t dipped fully behind the garrison yet. 

“Impressed you all, did I?” Porthos asks, but his voice is dry and brittle. 

“Indeed,” Aramis says, counting out his words slowly, “And took out some much-needed tension, I imagine. Sex can only do so much – so violence serves just as well.” 

There is a flicker of surprise in Porthos’ expression, the briefest shadow of an involuntary smile that he clamps down on before it can manifest. It’s gone so quickly. Aramis feels a slight quiver of delight. But then there’s a resignation to Porthos’ face soon after, which chills him down again. That same resignation he’d seen before, during their first conversation. It is an ugly look – far uglier than Porthos’ anger and his intimidation. It is an ugliness born from necessity. 

It is gone, though, just as instantly. Aramis ducks from that swipe and moves forward, his movements equally calculating as he parries and hits against Porthos’ forearm, an easy block. Closer like this, Porthos has moved yet again into that forced neutrality – but that resignation still burns in Aramis’ mind. The resignation of poor choices, but expected choices – a slow, bleeding wound reopened again and again until the sluggish pain no longer draws notice. 

Aramis remembers being a recruit himself, one of the first to join the ranks upon the formation of the Musketeers. He’d been cocky, overly so, in an attempt to hide the bleeding pain of a woman he’d long since lost, a woman he’d finally admitted was gone forever with no small amount of pain. He’d been cocky, all grins and overconfidence. But others had liked him, eventually, once they’d knocked him down a few pegs. He remembers this feeling. 

With Porthos, in this moment, it is the surety of hatred that he sees. Not the surety of Porthos’ hatred, as he’d thought. No. It is the surety that Porthos himself will be hated, mocked, rejected. Aramis can’t recall being truly hated before. An annoyance, a dalliance, perhaps a soldier’s enemy. But never despised. Not as others must despise Porthos, or as Porthos must expect. For all his way with words, he cannot parse Porthos open. He has misstepped, misspoken. 

He dodges back from Porthos’ punch – and steps forward into his space, attempts a hooking blow that Porthos blocks easily – all force, all confidence. There is no flair. There is no showmanship as he stares down Aramis – sizing him up in turn, eyes dark in the growing shadows. There is only precision. Talent. The sun dips down enough that it no longer dazzles Aramis’ eyes. 

“Did it help you?” Aramis asks, almost breathes it out. 

“Fighting?” Porthos clarifies as he regards Aramis, thoughtful, his eyes sweeping down over him in an attempt to parse Aramis’ next move.

“Yes.” 

Porthos looks at him for a moment and grips Aramis’ wrist too hard as he twists it away from him. Aramis hisses and shifts back, his footfalls ricocheting off the empty garrison walls. 

“Do you think it did?” Porthos asks, and it is an odd question. 

He has misspoken before, so this time Aramis chooses his words carefully. He tries to untwist his arm from his hold and looks up at Porthos. He chews on the inside of his cheek and decides, “Perhaps not.”

He cannot know if it is the right or wrong thing to say – only that Porthos strikes out in seriousness this time, and the punch connects to his gut in a way that the air lurches out of him. He gasps out, bends into the force of that punch, mouth falling open. He is not used to being hit so hard. 

He wheezes out and when he looks up again, Porthos’ anger is lighting his eyes out from the inside. “You’re talking like you know me again.” 

Aramis recalls their earlier conversation – the resignation staggering into Porthos’ eyes before the anger flared up, the anger at being dissected, at being outlined as if he could be known. 

“No,” Aramis says. He breathes out, tries to dodge back from the punch that connects to his cheek. He staggers, gasps out, spits and tastes blood. “I don’t know you. But from what I can see, you are –” 

He can’t find the word, but Porthos interrupts with a slow and weighted, “I’m what?” 

“Powerful,” Aramis settles on. 

“Oh yeah?” Porthos’ mouth twists up a little, in thought and in anger. “Proving some rumors right, I suppose.”

“Which?” 

“Aggressive,” Porthos snaps out, towers above Aramis. “I’m an animal. I fight like one.”

Aramis tries to block the next punch, but he staggers again and falls to his knee. In the end, it is a quick fight – hardly a spar at all – because he is facedown in the dirt with Porthos’ hand flexed in his hair, cupping his skull and keeping him there. His other hand fists around his wrist, tugging his arm back as his knee digs into the dip of his spine. Aramis would be impressed, would feel that pooling of lust in his belly at the weight of Porthos above him, if he wasn’t so desperate to sort out his words, to reach out to Porthos as he’d only ever intended. 

“No,” he gasps out into the dirt, wants to spit out the very thought of someone regarding Porthos as anything less than a man, as an _animal._ The hand flexes in his hair and Aramis closes his eyes, forces himself to breathe. “No, Porthos.” 

Porthos’ knee digs into the small of his back, the weight of it pressing him down to the ground in a way that shouldn’t leave Aramis feeling dizzy, that should not be sending a thrill to his gut. He tries to shift beneath him but Porthos holds him down easily. 

“If anyone has called you as much, I’ll—” Aramis wheezes out but the words are cut from him when Porthos’ weight presses down against him. 

“I don’t need anyone’s protection.” 

And then Porthos shifts and moves off from him – he rises above him and Aramis breathes in fully. Hand fists in the back of his collar and hauls him to his feet. Porthos’ stance is tense, his face shadowed – waiting, Aramis realizes, for retaliation. Waiting for Aramis to attack again – by punch or by words. 

“I apologize,” Aramis says and watches Porthos’ face twist up. He was right about Porthos’ response to words rather than actions, but it is too late now—

He ducks the punch, side-steps and attempts to kick his leg out and knock Porthos from his feet that way. Porthos is too quick for him, only stumbling away in time to launch forward again and dig his shoulder hard into Aramis’ stomach, throwing him onto his back with a startled cry. 

Aramis contemplates Porthos from the ground, sprawled out, his breathing harsh. Porthos does not offer him a hand this time and when he gets too close, Aramis kicks his legs out and attempts to catch him in the knee or the hip. 

Porthos’ mouth twists and he steps back. And then he ducks his head, not unlike he did during the training exercise. His hand lifts and Aramis watches, his heart thudding hard, his breath leaving him, as Porthos taps one long, thick finger against his cheek – lifting his eyebrows at Aramis. _Hit me right here,_ the gesture says, _if you can._

Aramis scrambles to his feet, wipes at his mouth and glances down at his palm – sees a spot of red but doesn’t care enough to stop. 

“I’m sorry,” Aramis says again around the blood. 

“Why?” Porthos asks when he easily ducks Aramis’ next attack. He taps his chest this time, another mocking gesture to fuel Aramis on. 

“I said you were snubbing us before,” Aramis says, and steps away when that sends another flare of anger through Porthos, who charges at him – he dances away, adapting his style, favoring the slick slide of evasion, searching for his opening. A head-on collision with Porthos might work in words, but not in physical strength. He is outmatched. 

“And aren’t I?” Porthos asks, and he is certainly mocking now. His boot connects to Aramis’ chest and he stumbles backwards. Breathless. 

“No,” Aramis says, thoughtful. “You’re surviving. You’re fighting.” 

Porthos doesn’t immediately lash out, and Aramis allows himself to dart closer – takes a swing at Porthos’ face. Instead, Porthos counters effortlessly, grabs at him and slams him up against the stable post. Aramis wheezes out in surprise as his feet leave the ground. He stares at Porthos, who stares at him in turn – searching him out, waiting for something. An insult. A justification. Anything. 

“You’re fighting,” Aramis gasps out, trying to catch his breath. His hands curl around Porthos’ wrists – even his wrists are powerful, he can feel the flex of his tendons beneath his fingertips. “Because you want us to respect you – and this is the only way we will.”

“As any recruit would,” Porthos answers, but the words are wooden.

Aramis shakes his head. “For you, it is different. You fight because it’s expected, but they will call you an animal, they will call you a beast.” 

Porthos says nothing and Aramis continues to search his face, since he has no hope of breaking free from this hold. He isn’t afraid. Perhaps he should be. But the sadness he saw in those eyes, that twisted resignation – it keeps him from feeling any fear. Only a deep, painful need to reach out to him, to reassure, to comfort. 

“You have nothing to prove,” Aramis decides as he looks at Porthos then. 

Porthos doesn’t say anything still. 

Aramis licks his lips, eyes tracing over Porthos’ face. “And you know it. But they do not.”

Porthos doesn’t relax – his hands don’t slacken, his shoulders stay tensed, and he doesn’t once blink or tear his eyes from Aramis. 

And then, slowly, Porthos lowers Aramis down onto his feet again. His fists stay twisted up in Aramis’ tunic, now dirty and ripped beyond recognition. 

“You think that, huh?” Porthos asks, and his voice is neutral.

“Yes,” Aramis says, with no hesitation. “I was careless, before. You _do_ want this brotherhood.” 

“And yet I have to fight for it,” Porthos relents, finally. 

Aramis looks at Porthos. “You shouldn’t have to.”

The barking sound Porthos makes might have at one point been a laugh, but it’s so twisted up in bitterness and begrudging acceptance that it’s a warped thing that chills Aramis rather than warms him. He wishes to never hear the sound again. 

“I’ve faced worse than your – their silence,” Porthos says. He tips his chin up, drops his hands from Aramis’ collar. “You think this is the first time I’ve had to work ten times as hard and five times as long just to prove I’m useful. That I’m _worthy_?” 

There is a touch to his voice then – an underlying, painful question. No man can pass through such a life untarnished by the words. Aramis wonders how much is bravado – and just how much Porthos believes himself unworthy, if at all. The chill running through his blood only thickens, and Aramis hates his fellow brothers in this moment – hates them for turning their backs because of their own ignorance. 

“No,” Aramis relents. 

“You must think it’s foolish – to _prove_ myself to them,” Porthos hisses out. “I shouldn’t care.” He drops his hands to his side, and they flex and unflex – itching to continue the fight, but unwilling or unable to now. His knuckles are bruised up. Aramis itches, as well – to wrap them for him. 

“No,” Aramis says. He looks up at Porthos, who regards him with a level of distrust he thinks they must have worked past now. And yet. “I think you are doing the best you can with a deck of cards stacked against you.” 

“They’d be happier if I disappeared in the night – never came back.” 

“Maybe so,” Aramis agrees, bites at the inside of his cheek for a moment. “But I would regret it very much.” 

But it is too much and too quickly, and Porthos withdraws. 

“You don’t know me,” Porthos dismisses. 

“I’d like to,” Aramis says, desperate to say it for the truth it is – but the moment has passed. Porthos is looking away from him, moving instead to where he’s left his coat and his hat. He folds the heavy leather of his coat over his arm. He doesn’t look at Aramis now. His hand smoothes over the arm of his coat, traces the fleur-de-lis with his thumb. It’s such a startling tender movement that it leaves Aramis breathless. 

Aramis says nothing to call Porthos back when he turns and walks back to his quarters. He stands alone in the courtyard to the garrison, long after Porthos’ footsteps fade.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something shifts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your kind words so far!

Porthos doesn’t seek Aramis out by any means, and yet whenever he looks up, Aramis has somehow managed to worm his way into his line of sight. He almost doesn’t notice it at first, so busy adjusting to the new life of a musketeer. Once he does notice it, about a week in, he can’t _stop_ noticing it. 

The worst part is Porthos can’t stop looking at him whenever Aramis is nearby. It’s subtle at first – and then it just gets worse. 

It’s a passing glance at first – looking up in time to see Aramis walk out of the garrison with his fellows, the day’s patrol roster in his hand. Porthos will roll his shoulder and take a look around the courtyard just in time to see Aramis return at night, kissing a woman goodnight and grinning at her like he has the devil’s luck. Porthos will finish mucking out the stables and step out with the thought of washing and then getting some food just in time to see Aramis finish cleaning his pistol and standing up from the wooden table from across the way – winking at Porthos as he passes by, just to be _ridiculous_. Porthos watches. He watches him train, watches him adjust his hat, watches him fix his collar, watches him roll his sleeves, watches him touch at his beard thoughtfully, watches him brush back the hair from his face, watches him smile like it’s easy, watches him laugh like it’s easier than even that. 

Porthos tells himself he should stop. The garrison is small – so he sees familiar faces, even if he speaks to few of them and even fewer deign to speak back. But it’s noticeable, in the end, when he finds himself honing in on Aramis in a crowd, hearing his voice and immediately looking up and glancing around for him. 

It’s still too vulnerable a thought – to meet Aramis’ eyes and find him looking back. He still feels too exposed, too broken open. There’s still too much he’s adjusting to, still too much he hasn’t yet learned or accepted. He’s still compartmentalizing it all – still learning to push it all down again. Still learning to build himself from the ground up again. He’s done it before and he _will_ do it again. But he feels like a fledgling, uneasy on his feet, uneasier still in his flight. 

Aramis’ conversation, painful as it might have been, was one of the longest he’s had since joining the regiment – beyond his conversations with the Captain, of course. The absence of speech bites at his throat. He is used to talking, he is used to laughing, he is used to being known. Even if he never truly fit in at the infantry, he at least had the ease of years and familiarity – a constant fixture within the regiment. He at least spoke with them, even if it was through necessity. He was at least known beyond face – he was at least known by name, by reputation. Here, he is still new, he is still nobody. And even if he were to find his place here, he will always be different. Porthos knows that. There will never be a day where he doesn’t know that he is different. 

He can’t stop thinking about Aramis’ words. He can’t stop thinking. He hasn’t been put on rotation yet and so there is no hope of diving into work, diving into fighting, and finding distraction and solace that way. He is a man of action, a man who uses his hands – sitting in silence, sitting in contemplation is too much. It has always been too much. 

It’s early morning now and he’s preparing for another long day of mucking out the stables, sitting down to a mush that he supposes might be breakfast. And that’s when Aramis drops down into the spot beside him. Not only that, but he elbows him to get his attention. It’s the simplest of contacts, but it’s enough to jostle Porthos. He drops his spoon and looks up to give Aramis a bewildered look before he remembers to scowl. 

Yet again, Aramis is not intimidated. Porthos almost wishes he would be. Fear is something he can work with. Blatant hatred is something he can push away, slam down, use to justify staying away. It has been a long time now since he’s dealt with genuine happiness and he is still waiting for the other shoe to fall now with Aramis – still waiting to see what the payoff for Aramis can be. Still waiting to see what kind of joke he will ultimately be the butt of. Still waiting. 

“Good morning, Porthos,” Aramis says, not missing a beat and diving back into speaking as if he is resuming a conversation after the briefest of lulls. “I believe we should pick up where we left off.” 

Porthos stares at him for a moment, and it’s too early for him to be looking directly at that wicked smile, cheerful and bright – unrelenting in the early morning like this. Porthos grunts. 

This does not seem to deter Aramis – and Porthos wonders if anything would. Aramis he stands up and throws out his hands, stretching a little in a way that exposes his neck perhaps a little too much. Porthos makes himself look away.

Aramis hums out, “We need to truly test our skills against one another.” 

Porthos finds himself looking over Aramis again, quite involuntarily. He eyes the bruise that’s blooming across the slope of Aramis’ neck and then looks up at his face, frowning – wary. “Didn’t get your fill before?” 

“Oh, I may have miscalculated before,” Aramis chirps out and he’s already untying his belts and unwrapping the sash from around his waist. Porthos hates that he stares so blatantly now, watches the way Aramis’ fingers flex and curl effortlessly with stripping. Aramis’ smile is downright sinful. “Clearly taking you on hand-to-hand was a grave mistake. We shall have to find more even ground.” 

“Shooting?” Porthos guesses, eyeing Aramis’ pistol as he sets it down on the tabletop. He’s seen the way Aramis shoots – he has a good arm and even better eye. He’ll be no match for his marksmanship. 

“Oh no,” Aramis laughs and his smile turns arrogant. “I’m afraid there’s really no hope for you beating me there. We’ll duel with swords.” 

_Why are you doing this,_ Porthos wants to ask. The flair and showmanship just makes Porthos’ stomach churn and he can’t get a read on Aramis. He can’t decide if he’s simple or he’s cruel. The idea that his friendliness might be genuine feels even more unlikely and ridiculous. 

He should say no. Or, better yet, he should ignore Aramis in the hopes that he will eventually buzz away and find a new project to antagonize. He should say no. He should really say no. 

_But I’d like to._ Aramis’ words come to him involuntarily, wrap up inside of him and hold tight until it’s all he can think about. I’d like to know you. 

Porthos’ mouth twists up. He should say no. 

He doesn’t say it, however, and instead tips his bowl back to swallow the last of the breakfast mush he’s been eating and stands, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth and fetching his sword from where it sits against the table. 

“Alright,” he says, “if you’re that desperate to be beaten again, I won’t deny you.” 

“Few ever do deny me,” Aramis agrees, and strides with confidence to the center of the garrison courtyard. He glances at Porthos over his shoulder, and that look sends a shocking thrill down into Porthos’ gut before he presses it down. He follows him. He watches the way Aramis struts, the sight of the sun in his long hair, the slant of his shoulders. His coat flutters in the morning breeze as he works to undo the buttons, and Porthos studies his pauldron – an intricate and ornate fleur-de-lis in a bed of vine and paisley. It’s elegant. 

Aramis sheds his coat and smiles at Porthos as he unsheathes his sword and swings it through the air in a few delicate arcs, the satisfying swish of the blade through air filling Porthos’ ears. 

Porthos’ curiosity gets the better of him, in the end, and he does ask, “Why?” 

Aramis lifts an eyebrow, mulls over his question – at least has the courtesy not to pretend he doesn’t know what Porthos is truly asking. Then he says, “I like a challenge.”

Porthos snorts, despite himself. “A challenge.” 

Aramis’ grin is wicked and bright, and should not be quite as stunning as it is. “You strike me as a man who does, too.” 

Porthos wonders at that, glances around the garrison and then looks back at Aramis – who meets his eyes easily, his smile sunny. There is a tentativeness now, though, the slightest easing – one foot at a time, ever closer. Porthos takes a deep breath. 

“And what makes you so sure you know me?” Porthos asks, an old wound that he keeps picking at when it comes to Aramis. 

Aramis shakes his head, though, quick and sure. “I don’t,” he says, easily enough. “But I’d like to.” 

_But I’d like to._ Those words again. 

Porthos pulls off his coat and draws his sword, mirrors Aramis’ movements and slashes the blade through the air. He doesn’t answer the words – can’t trust them. Won’t trust them. 

“Come now. Come at me,” says Aramis as his smile stretches wider across his face. He drinks Porthos in, sword at his side. “I’d have struck you down by now.”

Porthos’ feet shift back into position. The birds are chirping on the roofs of the garrison and there are a few other musketeers still milling around. It isn’t as silent, it isn’t as empty as it was that evening he and Aramis sparred – but as soon as he locks eyes with Aramis, the rest of the world melts away and he’s left only watching him. There’s only Aramis. 

“You’re rather determined. You should know I’m not easily beat,” Porthos says.

“I know,” Aramis agrees, eyes sparkling. “I’ve been watching you.” 

His blood is a dull roar in his ears as he starts to circle Aramis, who parrots the movements. They circle one another, swords at a ready, both of them not looking away from the other. Aramis shrugs one shoulder, lips quirking downwards in a shadow of a frown, when Porthos doesn’t immediately respond. 

“And what do you see?” Porthos asks, again when curiosity gets the better of him.

Aramis’ smile turns a touch softer – and Porthos can’t tell if it’s artifice or not. “Why,” Aramis sighs, “I see a man who has nothing to prove.” 

“And yet here we are,” Porthos says to dull the jag of bitterness that wells up in his throat at the words, thrown again in his face. 

Aramis shrugs. “Perhaps I’m proving myself to you, then. Will you not accept it?” 

Porthos almost answers, but then with an artful flourish, Aramis steps forward and Porthos has to lift his sword and block the swing. Aramis presses closer, and where he lacked the skill in hand-to-hand against him, here he makes up for it in darting perfection – smooth movements and hard competiveness. He’s close enough in Porthos’ space to use his weight against him, and Porthos lurches back a little with the force of Aramis’ swing. 

He’s impressed, despite himself. 

Their swords clash, and soon they fall into a steady rhythm of attack and retreat – both matching one another, both testing the waters, both moving closer when they can and moving away again when they can’t. It’s more evenly matched than their last spar, and Porthos finds himself enjoying the movement, despite himself – finds himself stepping further and further to lay his attacks, finds himself enjoying that competitive edge to Aramis’ retreats and pursuits. Aramis moves like liquid, flowing around him, countering him, and by the end of a few parries, he’s intimately familiar with the color of Aramis’ eyes as they dart back and forth, studying Porthos’ face. Intimately aware of the way his jaw clenches before he lunges forward, bits his lip when countering Porthos’ attacks, his cheeks flushed and puffing out with his breath, the way the artful flourishes don’t go away even when he’s steady in his concentration. He remains handsome at first, clearly showing off, but as they continue on it edges away as Aramis truly focuses, truly unleashes the extent of his skill – and there’s an ugliness to the way his face twists up in his concentration, and Porthos finds he enjoys it much more than the artful smiles. 

In the end, though, it is clear whose skills are superior – and Aramis parries again, flourishes, and upsets Porthos’ sword from his hand with an artfully placed flash of skill. Aramis moves forward and Porthos steps back, his back hitting the support post for the stairs leading to Treville’s office. The slide of the blade is nowhere near close enough to do any real damage, but the way it cuts across the space between Aramis hand and Porthos’ neck is telling enough for Porthos to know he has lost this battle. Porthos forgets to be afraid, forgets to be aware of how easily it’d be for Aramis to finish the job and cut him down – and who would mourn him if he were to fall in a training accident? 

But Aramis is looking at him, and up close like this, his expression is sad – not from pity, but understanding. 

“You are so angry,” he says and Porthos’ hands involuntarily fist up before he reminds himself to be calm, and he breathes out harsh through his nostrils – bites back the memories that bubble up of his own happiness, his laughter. He was not always this angry. Aramis’ eyes flicker across his face, assessing, and he takes one step closer into Porthos’ space. There’s sweat clinging to his brow, in the dip of his throat, but all Porthos can smell is some kind of perfume. Aramis says, “You’re also strong.”

Porthos doesn’t respond, but Aramis takes a step back. He touches Porthos’ shoulder, grips it, and squeezes. The touch is too familiar and Porthos should shy away from it. Instead, he just meets his eyes – long and steady. There is a shadow across Aramis’ face, with a weight to it, and Porthos stares him down until the moment blurs between them. 

“You’re strong,” Aramis says again, and there’s a pressure to his words that makes Porthos lose his words, stale in his throat. He heaves out a shuddering breath and he’s painfully aware of the sweat clinging to his body, to the numbness to his hand with the force that he gripped his sword. There’s no one else in the entire garrison – just Aramis in that moment. Aramis licks his lips, and then a moment later he is smiling. “You’ve been fighting for such a long time, Porthos.” 

Porthos falters – ready to bite back against this pity. But the smile Aramis gives him – distant and a little sad – seems more for himself than for Porthos. 

“We’re all fighting,” he settles on, words cautious as he watches Aramis. Something flickers across Aramis’ face. 

“And if you did not have to fight so hard?” Aramis asks him, innocent enough. And then he sighs out, blinking once. “You’re resisting my friendship, Porthos.” 

Porthos thinks on that for half a moment and then says, quiet, “Would you trust it? If you were me?” 

“Of course,” Aramis says, far too quickly and with a wide smile. “I am spectacular company. Everyone should want to be friends with me.” There’s a tease to the words. But Aramis’ smile turns self-deprecating when he asks, “I hope I don’t look quite that untrustworthy?” 

“I don’t know,” Porthos answers, which is hardly an answer at all. 

Aramis’ smile is wan in reply, but he doesn’t seem as bothered as perhaps he could be, given that he has just been insulted. Instead, he watches Porthos with an intensity that’s matched only by Porthos’ mirroring stare. The intensity almost doesn’t suit his face, so used to the beguiling smiles, and yet curves across the sharp corners of his jaw and cheekbones with precision. It’s this look from Aramis, fixed on him the times it has, that leaves Porthos feeling utterly vulnerable for the first time since he was a child scrounging the dirt for a means to survive. 

Porthos doesn’t want to drop his eyes away from him – doesn’t want to admit defeat in that way, and so he holds the long stare he and Aramis have been sharing for what feels like far too long. Aramis eventually shifts back the slightest bit, drops his sword and sheaths it at his side with a touch of the reverential – not in the way he cleans and holds his pistol, like it is a fragment of God, but rather with a grace befitting something worthy. 

“It’s not about you,” Porthos finally says, and doesn’t admit that in a manner of trust, he trusts too freely and too easily. He knows his walls better than anyone – knows how painfully easy it is for him to hold someone dear and have them disappear. He knows what it is to trust. He knows what it is to have that betrayed. This is protection. 

“You continue to hit many blows to my pride, Monsieur,” Aramis says and doesn’t look nearly as disapproving as he might otherwise. But there is a touch of a whine to his voice. 

“Alright look,” Porthos says, slowly, “I’m not here to make friends. I’m here for the position – for the commission. What does it matter to me if I have no friends for it? Why would I want to befriend those who ignore me at best?” 

He hasn’t heard the words yet, but he knows it is a matter of time – the whispers that he is the captain’s dog, that he diminishes the position by his presence. The musketeers as a regiment is still young, and it isn’t as varied as the infantry became in the later years. He feels very much the creature on display. It’s only a matter of time before there are questions of his background, his upbringing – and he will have nothing to show for it but a long list of petty crimes and no bed to call home. 

“They should be ashamed of themselves,” Aramis says, fiercely. Porthos looks at him, waits for some justification, waits for indication that he is the one at fault. Instead, Aramis’ face hardens, sharpens down into one of distaste and disgust – not directed at Porthos. “We are not the infantry. We are elite soldiers meant to do the king’s duty – and it is critical that brothers are trusted and relied upon. That they can make you feel this unwelcomed is unacceptable.” 

Porthos shrugs. “I’m used to it.”

“You shouldn’t have to be,” Aramis snaps, and then thinks better of it. He sighs, runs a hand down his face, and steps away from Porthos, retrieving his coat for him and offering it to him. Porthos takes it, but doesn’t move from where he leans back against the support post. Aramis continues, “And you do care what they think. How could you not?” 

Porthos narrows his eyes at him, his shoulders tensing up yet again. 

But Aramis merely shakes his head. “Who wouldn’t? You shouldn’t have to go through this alone, Porthos. But you have _nothing_ to prove to them. They should be proving themselves to you.”

“You keep saying that,” Porthos says. “Bold thing to say about a recruit.” 

“You would not be here if you didn’t earn your position,” Aramis says. There is no insincerity in his words, no pity in his gaze. Porthos isn’t sure how to respond to it. “I’ve seen many recruits come and go, fall apart within a few days just from the stress of soldiery. You haven’t faltered once.”

“You really think that,” Porthos says, after a moment. 

“Yes,” Aramis answers. 

Porthos looks away, looks at his sword lying on the ground. Then he looks at Aramis for a long moment, who meets his gaze. Waiting. 

Porthos breathes out. He isn’t sure what to say – and he isn’t sure what Aramis is waiting for. Aramis fetches his sword and hands it to him, his smile almost tentative. 

Porthos reaches out and takes it, holds it tight. 

“… Yeah. I get it,” Porthos says – and something has shifted, he can feel it – and he pulls on his coat as he turns away. 

 

-

 

In hindsight, Aramis can understand how his overtures of friendship might have been met with suspicion. In light of the large indifference and aggressive avoidance Porthos faces every time he walks into the garrison, it’s easy to see how his smiles and his cheerfulness could be some kind of elaborate joke. Aramis thinks he might have a better handle on the situation. He hopes so, at least. 

Still, he really is one for a challenge. And he so hates to be hated.

And so, when he sees Porthos next, he doesn’t try to disguise what he’s doing. He approaches Porthos openly, an inviting smile, and a clap to Porthos’ shoulder. Porthos doesn’t quite startle, but he gives Aramis a slightly puzzled look, the shoulder he’s touching tensing up beneath him. 

Aramis, above all things, can be stubborn – and he’s decided, in lieu of the shameful behavior from his fellow musketeers, that he will be a welcoming party to befit an army. The idea that his brothers would ignore another of their own as one might a horse or a donkey or a piece of furniture – unaware that he is there and unwilling to look deeper – is enough to make Aramis’ blood boil with shame and anger. In light of Porthos’ skills amongst the regiment, trouncing all who go against him in hand-to-hand, the ignoring on their part has become something more deliberate than coincidental. 

“No sparring today?” Aramis asks pleasantly, nodding towards where some of the recruits who’ve stuck around are swiping at one another in a farce of battle – Porthos could beat them both soundly, Aramis is certain. 

Porthos shrugs, already a warmer gesture than it might have been even last week. At least he is acknowledging that Aramis is standing beside him. He says, “They know I can beat them now.” 

“Hmm,” Aramis hums. “It’s good you’ve made a lasting impression.” 

Porthos’ mouth twists up into something bitter, but he doesn’t snap at Aramis. He only shrugs again, hooks his thumbs into his belt. 

“Yeah,” he says, voice brittled. Aramis pats him on his shoulder, to demonstrate his own good will. He lets his hand linger, squeezes gently. Porthos slants him with a look, long and calculating – trying to work him out. Aramis smiles at him in reply. 

“They know not to challenge you,” Aramis says. He presses his thumb against his shoulder, pleasantly surprised when Porthos doesn’t shrug him away and instead accepts the touch. “You are a one-man army, Porthos.” 

“Probably best not to humiliate them all too much too quickly,” Porthos agrees, voice thoughtful – and reserved, closed-off. 

Aramis watches the recruits spar one another, under the watchful eye of Treville, who walks along the upper balcony leading to his office. Aramis looks back at Porthos and lets his hand drop away, lets it slide along for a moment longer than necessary. “They’ll be your brothers. So they’ll forgive you with elegance and the best of good nature.” 

“Will they?” Porthos asks, and his voice is distant still. He’s watching the recruits, watching one duck and dive into the other. Aramis can see the judgment in Porthos’ eyes – assessing each weak point, assessing just how he’d take both recruits down, if given the chance. 

“Yes,” Aramis says. 

“If only I could be so lucky,” Porthos decides. He turns a little and looks at Aramis fully – appraising him, searching him yet again for signs of insincerity. Porthos won’t find any from him. 

Aramis knows how he presents to others. It is something he has cultivated for many years – a sort of carelessness that hides his own brand of wariness. Porthos, for all his attempted intimidation, is an open book. At least to Aramis. He is like Aramis, ready to love and eager to trust beneath all that gruff, defensive exterior. It is there for good reason. 

Aramis will eventually learn that Porthos is different from him, though – careful and protective only because he knows the true extent of his defenses. Where Aramis is wary for his own lack of worth, and ultimately falls in love fully and completely without realizing he’s already done so until it is too late, Porthos knows that he takes very little to crash his walls down and reach out to others. It is protection born from a confidence of knowing himself. Aramis, for all his lightness and chivalry, has yet to learn this about himself and thus will know far greater pain over the course of their friendship. 

But that is something he will not know for some time. In this moment, Aramis looks at Porthos. Remembers the moments of almost-smiles he’s been able to coax from Porthos only once or twice. And he reaches a decision. 

“Perhaps they are the lucky ones,” Aramis simpers. 

“How do you figure?” Porthos asks with a sigh. 

“Strength like yours? With those _arms_?” 

Porthos grunts, still waiting for Aramis’ point. “And?” 

“They can’t be so blind as to not understand that you’re the kind of soldier that anyone should be lucky to have…” he pauses here and breathes out once, not letting himself hesitate before he powers through with heavy emphasis, “ _covering_ him.” 

Porthos’ eyebrows shoot up as the innuendo sets in. “What?”

It doesn’t seem a disapproving question, so Aramis presses on valiantly, even bats his eyelashes a little. 

“I only hope I can be there when that day arrives.” He arches his brow a bit when he looks up at Porthos again, playing at coy. “I’m sure it’d be quite the sight.” 

Porthos looks back, blinks once, and then his face completely changes.

Before, where there was only anger, withdrawal, pain – now Porthos suddenly looks ten years younger as he bursts out into a sharp bark of surprised laughter. And _God Almighty_ , he has dimples which flash around his beard and his mouth spreads in a toothy smile, nothing like the snarls Aramis has seen him make – just unrestrained in that moment. Unselfconscious. Pleased. 

“You really are ridiculous,” Porthos breathes out, and his voice sounds lighter. 

“So I’ve been told once or twice,” Aramis sighs, his eyes sparkling. “I stand by the sentiment.” 

Porthos chuckles. There’s a laughing wonder to Porthos’ face in that moment, and Aramis can’t stop staring, can’t resist grinning back at him in response. There is something that twists up inside of him at a gut-level, something concrete and nameless, but consuming. If it were anyone else, perhaps Aramis would be overwhelmed by the force of the sentiment but all he can feel now is an absurd kind of luck at seeing that smile and hearing that laugh. 

This is the moment that Aramis falls in love with Porthos, although he will not know this until much later. 

 

-

 

Porthos spends most of his nights in his room – if not for his own distance than because of his rather empty purse. With his meager savings and the commission not yet coming in consistently, he stays in his quarters and cleans his pistol or struggles over Bible verses, feeling the fool. He lights a lantern late into the night and squints down at words just as foreign to him as any foreign language and hates his ignorance. It comes poorly to him, and slowly, and even years later his handwriting will still make him flush with shame from time to time – and he curses his own lack of knowledge, curses the Court and his wasted adolescence, and curses his fellow musketeers who feel no shame and think little of reading and writing, as second nature to them as breathing. 

There’s a knock at the door and Porthos is quick enough to hide his writing with a twist of his wrist before he’s standing, grasping at his sword – as if he would be attacked here, as if he would be attacked with the courtesy of a warning knock. He really shouldn’t be surprised that it’s Aramis who comes through the door, tiny smile and glittering eyes. Who else would seek him out but his constant shadow?

“I was hoping I’d find you here,” Aramis says as greeting, which is really a foolish thing to say because – really, where else would he be at this time of night? He leans against the doorframe as the door opens wider with a yawning creep and the cool night air flutters into the room, making the wick of Porthos’ lantern flicker once before it then goes still. “We’re going drinking – are you joining us?”

Porthos doesn’t know who ‘we’ includes, and he looks at Aramis warily. If he means the man he often shadows when not hovering near Porthos, he isn’t interested – can’t pinpoint just why he doesn’t like Marsac, only that he bristles up more around him than he ever did with Aramis. There is a sharpness to him that always cuts too deep, that is just a little too jagged to be mere teasing. Aramis, of course, likely doesn’t notice it, too drunk on the need for approval. That, at least, Porthos has understood about Aramis. 

He thinks again about all that Aramis has said – the insistence now that he has nothing to prove, that all should prove themselves to him. There is something that lifts inside of Porthos, some kind of understanding, some kind of acceptance. No one will fight as hard as he will to earn his place amongst the regiment. There is some kind of security there, some kind of peace in knowing that in that thought he is not alone. How odd it feels now to think of Aramis as some kind of confidant rather than a nuisance. 

“Join us,” Aramis implores, and Porthos doesn’t know why he stands, doesn’t know why he pulls on his boots – can’t speak to the reason as to why he follows Aramis out into the night. Only that he does so. 

Thus begins a weekly tradition. 

 

-

 

It is a few days later and Aramis is drinking with Marsac’s arm wrapped heavy around his neck. He has been, perhaps, neglecting Marsac as of late – but he has finally managed to get Porthos to join the rest of the regiment for drinks and the tavern is wild with laughter and the usual din, shadows cast low and thoughtful. He leans into Marsac once, flushed with liquor and forgetting to be subtle. 

He feels Porthos eyes on him but he knows he can’t look for long or else Marsac will duck his head into something less playful and more withdrawn. Aramis likes to be liked, and likes to make Marsac happy. Aramis is, of course, very persuasive – and if he can convince Porthos to join the regiment for drinks, then he can convince anyone.

“Cheer up,” he tells Marsac, who gives him a long and level look. Marsac’s eyes are so light even in the darkness, and Aramis can’t help but think of Porthos’ eyes – alighted with his own determination in battle, the way they flicker and cast about, but always seem so certain and steady. So dark and so beautiful. 

“Hm,” is Marsac’s response. 

“We should invite Porthos over,” he slurs into his ear, because Porthos is sitting at the cards table and he is, undoubtedly, cheating, if the wicked grin he’s making is any indication. He has to fill his purse somehow, Aramis thinks, and he really should be scandalized or outraged, but all he wants is to feel the strong bulk of Porthos’ arm against his as they lean together against the bar. 

Marsac’s hold on his neck tightens a little, grows possessive, but Aramis doesn’t really notice, only shivers happily at the attention. 

“Hm,” Marsac says again, but there is a sharpness to the hum, and although he teases, there is a sharp edge to it as well, “Should I give you two time alone?” 

Aramis doesn’t pout, but he does give Marsac a long look, brushing the hair away from his face and letting his lips quirk up into an impish smile. He glances over his shoulder and finds Porthos watching him again, and his smile becomes a grin, raising his cup to toast his friend from across the room. Porthos looks away, but not before Aramis sees his smile. Something warms inside of him. 

He watches the way Porthos seems to light up as he plays out hand after hand, rakes in his winnings. Aramis eventually ducks out from beneath Marsac’s hold and joins them – and he gambles away a weeks’ worth of earnings that night to Porthos, always betting a little more than he should with the hope that he’d finally learned Porthos’ tells, only to find himself beguiled at the end of the night. He feels Marsac’s eyes burning at his back, but he can’t take his eyes off Porthos. 

He also doesn’t care to try. 

 

-

 

After the last round of training is complete, and the regiment weeds out the men who weren’t destined to carry the title of musketeer, Porthos is assigned his first detail: and it proves exceptionally dull. He’s responsible for escorting a visiting ambassador’s personal and professional writings around the wealthiest neighborhoods of Paris. It is of utmost importance that it is a musketeer who delivers his messages and letters, rather than an unworthy errand boy. There is some underlying promise of being waylaid, of fighting it out to protect the sanctity of words that Porthos can’t even read. But it remains only a promise of danger and the detail itself is remarkably tedious. 

Porthos has never actually seen the fancier, splendid parts of the city he’s called home for – well, however many years he’s been alive. But he hasn’t been missing much. It’s all perfume and brocade, purposefully ornate hair, even more ornate dress, and following the visiting ambassador as his shadow – unnoticed and unimportant. 

What makes it somewhat bearable is that Aramis is assigned to the detail, as well. Aramis is a seasoned soldier, and guides along the newest recruits with a practiced ease, leaving two musketeers at post within the ambassador’s accommodations. Aramis leads them through it, easy enough as it is, and his smiles do well to set the new musketeers at ease. He leaves them at their posts and accompanies Porthos on his errand, expaining the fine detail of multitasking: of doing one’s duty and enjoying the sights at the same time. Aramis seems to fit right into the splendor of the upper class – his hair shiny and smelling of perfumes themselves, his smile simple and easy, his pauldron intricate leafing punched into the leather. He tips his hat to the women they pass, who all giggle behind their hands or fans and turn around to watch him even after he’s passed. 

That’s how Aramis is, Porthos has found. Flourishes, mostly – but Porthos is good at watching. He doesn’t miss the way Aramis’ expression goes slack with longing whenever passing a mother carrying her infant. He doesn’t miss the way Aramis moves with a practiced ease, and yet his eyes never leave the letter tucked into Porthos’ side, nor fail to scope out every available nook and cranny – for machinations or for recreation, Porthos doesn’t know. But Aramis is aware. And there is more to Aramis than the ridiculous show he puts on. 

Although a dull detail, there is a confrontation towards the end of the day – when a cart is overturned and a hooded man attempts to capture the ambassador’s letter. Aramis moves swiftly, already reaching for his pistol – but Porthos steps forward, plants his feet and buries his fist into the man’s gut – knocking the wind from him with a stifled wheeze. He tries not to flush with shame, with pride, when he sees Aramis’ raised eyebrows. He has built himself on the foundation of underestimation – and it isn’t a mistake this would-be kidnapper will make again. 

“Impressive,” Aramis says, as if he is surprised, as if he has not been watching Porthos for weeks now. 

Porthos doesn’t swell beneath the praise – he does not need the praise. He looks at Aramis and finds Aramis watching him in turn – and a quiet, breathless moment passes between them. 

 

-

 

When Porthos loses his footing in a scuffle with a prisoner they’re transporting to the Bastille, a large bulk of a man who managed to get a lucky shot in, it’s Aramis who steps in and takes the blunt of the force before Porthos can properly recoil. Aramis makes the sound of a wounded animal before he muffles it, and he’ll get a black eye for his troubles, but Porthos is too busy staring at him in a quiet shock to properly identify just _why_ it bothers him that Aramis would do this. 

He stumbles back, tugs on Aramis’ shoulder to steady him – he’s bent down, hand pressed to his face and cursing in fluent Spanish as blood drips from his nose. Porthos looks at him for a moment, doesn’t think to say thank you, just kicks up a heavy branch from the ground and slams it hard into the prisoner’s head, sending him sprawling onto the ground. He walks the paces to him, churns his heel down hard against his gut until the man can’t breathe, and pins him there with the branch. Easy as that. The punch he gives the prisoner is overkill, perhaps, but he feels it’s a necessary turnabout. The punch to the face meant for him and taken by Aramis likely would have bounced right off of Porthos without incident, but Aramis looks as if he’s been snapped in two, even if he’s grinning now – blood in his teeth and running down over his lip. 

“A branch?” Aramis asks, and there’s no doubting the thrilling kind of pleasure in Aramis’ voice. He wipes at his nose and his smile dims a bit in concern. 

Porthos tugs off his hat and rips the bandana from his head, and offers it to him in lieu of a kerchief. Aramis looks as if he’ll hesitate as the other musketeers converge on the prisoner and secure his bounds. Porthos steps forward, presses the dark fabric to his nose, dabbing.

“It probably smells,” Porthos says, as apology. The material is dark, though, and the stains won’t be as noticeable as they would be if Aramis used his own lacey handkerchief. 

“It’s not that,” Aramis says with a small kind of wonder. His hand lifts and takes over the bandana from Porthos, presses it to his nose and tips his head back to try to get the blood to stop flowing. Already a purpling bruise is blooming over his left eye. “These are not the kinds of battle wounds I like.”

“No?” Porthos asks, doesn’t know why he’s hovering.

“Scars are much more romantic than a black eye and a swollen nose,” Aramis sighs, ever the dramatic. “Scars have a great story. Now I’ll just look ridiculous.”

“You always look ridiculous,” Porthos says before he can think better of it, a small thread of teasing woven into his words. It sounds far more affectionate than he’d intended and he clamps his mouth shut for a moment, lips thinning out.

“You wound me,” Aramis laughs. He drops the bandana away for a moment and frowns. “Does it look broken?”

“Straight as ever,” Porthos replies, dry as bone in an attempt to compensate for his earlier slip. He prods at Aramis’ nose just to hear him hiss out in an exaggerated whine. 

“Oh, lovely,” Aramis says and sounds downright chipper. “Do try not to not get hurt from now on.”

“Don’t jump in the way of my fights and you should be fine,” Porthos says back. Aramis just grins at him, teeth still red from his bloody nose – and Porthos looks at him for a moment before he makes himself look away. 

 

-

 

This is what Porthos learns of Aramis: 

He is fearless, to the point of recklessness. He’s watched Aramis judge a distance between two rooftops for only two seconds before he decided to jump regardless, nearly slipping and cracking his head open. He’s witnessed him sneaking from a married woman’s window because there was no other point of exit, much to Porthos’ laughing delight. Aramis often makes his exit in such a manner (partly for Porthos’ amusement, a detail that Porthos does not yet know and won’t know for many years). He grins after a fight and thrives under the need for praise. His sword parries are always accompanied by an ending flourish once the enemy has fallen, and he lifts his chin in pleased victory, searching out another’s eyes for the thrill of witnesses – and he often claims Porthos’, when they are on mission together. For all the wine and glory that Aramis says he covets, for all that he can preside over a table of musketeers like a king would his court, all smiles and all good humor, he is, as far as Porthos can tell, a loner – rarely spending time with more than one person for more than is strictly necessary, often shadowing Marsac (whom Porthos still does not like) and otherwise keeping to himself. It is why, for all of his charm, Porthos cannot understand why Aramis would bother seeking him out as often as he does. 

This is what Aramis learns of Porthos: 

For all his anger and all his withdrawal, he is a man who lives. His natural state is one of laughter and smiles – loud and unrestrained. He loves life. Aramis can see it in the way Porthos bites into food that would make any other man cringe, the way he closes his eyes and just savors it. He can see it in the little quirk of his lips in hidden delight when he wins a hand at cards or dice. He can see it in the little sigh of satisfaction when he holds a new sword in his hands and feels the slick slide of the whetting stone as it sharpens beneath his own hard work. He is a born fighter, and where he lacks in formal skill he makes up for in innovation – and Aramis has witnessed him use the simplest of objects as weapons or distraction tactics, and he has seen very few times in which Porthos did not seem at ease and thriving in a fight, and his grin is wide and victorious whenever he bests his opponents. He has learned that, despite all the ways that he will stand-off from others, there is still a small, fleeting part of him that he keeps hidden that wants nothing more than to belong.

 

-

 

“Fold,” says Jacque, rather glum, when Porthos drops down into the seat across from him at Aramis’ beckoning. Aramis is grinning, though, clearly pleased that he’d hardly needed to goad Porthos at all into joining. Marsac is sitting beside Aramis, stewing in some kind of steely silence – for all his time in the garrison, he and Marsac have exchanged possibly five words. 

Claude takes the opportunity to sweep in and take the winnings before things can get derailed too quickly, and Jacque folds his hands over his face and sighs. Marsac collects up the cards, lips thinned out, and shuffles. Aramis is still grinning at Porthos, and there’s a lightness to his eyes that Porthos can’t quite identify. Porthos looks away, though, and Aramis is sitting too close to Marsac, one hand dropped down from the table and the other sliding his fingertips over the cards that Claude deals out. 

“Oh, stay,” Aramis tells Jacque, who looks as if he’ll stand. “If it’s four against one, he won’t win every hand. Even Porthos must meet his match in numbers eventually.” 

“So long as he doesn’t cheat,” Marsac says, voice sharp and precise. Something dims in Aramis’ eyes – a shadow of anger. A muscle in his jaw jumps out with the force of him clenching his mouth shut, and Porthos wonders just what it is that Aramis isn’t saying in that moment. He tells himself he doesn’t care too strongly. 

Porthos levels Marsac with a long look, says nothing, just takes up his cards and looks over them. He divvies out the entrance fee to the hand, and waits. 

They play a few hands – and Porthos wins the first hand, much to the grumbles between Jacque and Claude. They don’t leave, however, and their grumbling and complaints doesn’t seem to veer towards genuine upset and more a begrudging drunkenness. Perhaps it’d have been better if Porthos had lost the first hand, but he was never one to throw a fight and never one to back down, and so he looks up as he takes the winnings and stares Marsac dead in the eye as he does so. 

When he glances away, once Marsac looks down at his cards, Porthos finds Aramis’ face, smiling a little softer than before, but not disappointed. Porthos doesn’t know why he keeps looking at him, and firmly tells himself that he does not care for Aramis’ opinion. 

They play a few hands, and Porthos can get a sense of the general tenor of the games at hand – learns Claude’s tells easily with the small twist of his wrist and twitch of his eye, learns Marsac’s recklessness with betting when his hand is mediocre, learns Jacque’s slight shift in his cadence of speech when he’s trying to hide his excitement at a good hand, and learns that Aramis is a shit player in every sense of the word – betting stupidly, folding easily, and winning rarely. Porthos could win each round if he really wanted, but for his skill he also knows the importance of making sure that people keep coming back. 

Claude looks at his meager earnings and heaves a long sigh. “I think I’m out.” 

“Have some more wine,” Aramis offers with a wicked grin, eyes twinkling. He even has the audacity to wink at Porthos, which he steadily ignores in favor of holding out his drink for Aramis to pour into his cup instead. 

“I think I’ve had enough,” Claude admits, which Porthos silently agrees with – Claude’s betting grows more disjointed with every drink, which is likely exactly why Aramis keeps feeding it to him while not touching his own cup. Underhanded tactics disguised as kindness, a vain hope of earning back his coin. Porthos approves. 

Porthos debates for half a moment, then lifts his cup. “I’ll drink for you.” He takes two long, deep swallows, licking his bottom lip absently as he does so. Aramis’ eyes fall on his mouth, long enough for Porthos to notice and then steadily ignore. “There you go. One for the both of us.” 

“You’re too kind,” Claude says, and he doesn’t sound mocking as Porthos expected, and actually smiles a little as he flips a few coins between his fingers. “Go on, then. Deal.” 

It’s Jacque who ends up bowing out first, with a rather hefty purse. “Well,” he says, downing the last of his drink. “You lads have a good night. I’ll be off.” 

There’s a general groan of disappointment as he makes off with his purse, and Porthos thinks to himself that he should do better to disguise it lest he suffer a pickpocket on his way back to the garrison. Claude looks down at his dwindling pile and sighs out. Marsac and Aramis are hardly faring much better, and the only reason Porthos has a hefty pot left is because he knew when to fold. 

“No man should walk away with that much,” Marsac says, frowning after Jacque as he disappears into the night. Aramis shrugs beside him.

“Perhaps _he_ was cheating,” Aramis says, and the words are light and dismissive, but there’s a hard edge to it, some kind of warning as he looks at Marsac. He glances away and the moment passes, his expression warming as he looks at Porthos. “Do you think it’s possible, Monsieur?”

“Oh, no. Cheating? That would be wrong,” says Porthos, a long drawl of words around Aramis’ delighted laugh. Porthos muffles his own smile as he gathers the cards into a pile. He begins shuffling, a simple gesture for him, something he can do without thinking as he watches the looks and exchanges between Aramis and the other two at the table. He fans out the cards and looks at the three before him. “Should we keep going?” 

“I might as well,” Claude says and Marsac makes a soft sound of begrudging agreement, eyes on Aramis. 

Aramis shifts closer to Porthos, enough so that their knees bump once before he’s grinning at Claude and Marsac, as if the innocent gesture hadn’t happened at all. Porthos doesn’t care to examine why something so simple fills him with a flush of warmth. 

“Mind yourself,” Aramis tells the other two, “I’m watching all your hands.” He winks. “Just in case.” 

Porthos gathers up the cards and shuffles one last time, tilts his head and hums out a bit. He keeps his eyes on Aramis even as he slips a face card up his sleeve, subtle and precise – unnoticed by the other three. 

They play a few more hands. Porthos cheats until he realizes the others are too drunk to properly defend themselves against even his honest skills. At the end of the night, though, for a reason he can’t quite discern, he lets himself lose spectacularly to Aramis, who is unbearably smug about it and palms his new stack of coins with downright glee. 

“I think that’s it for me,” Claude admits, or more like slurs, as he stands and tries to get his meager savings back into his pockets with a few fumbling clinks of coins on the table. He manages to drop them back into his coat pockets and tips his hat as he gets to his feet. “Thanks for the company.” 

“I’m out,” Marsac agrees, sounding far more sour than Claude, and heaves himself to his feet as he stretches a little. 

“You all run in the face of my victory,” Aramis sighs dramatically, seizes Porthos’ cup of wine and finishes the last dredges of the warmed drink. “What kind of soldiers are you?”

“Tired and drunk ones,” Marsac says, and at least his face softens a little when he looks at Aramis in that moment, placing his hat on his head so it splayed out low enough to cast shadow over his bleary eyes. 

“Goodnight,” Aramis calls as Claude and Marsac amble for the door, the both of them stumbling a little and offering one another support until they’re gone into the night – leaving just Porthos and Aramis. The fire in the grate crackles with heat that Porthos can feel even halfway across the room, and it’s late enough into the night that the general din of the tavern is quieter than usual. There are some patrons already dozing at their tables, much to the chagrin of the innkeeper and her daughter. 

Porthos looks at Aramis, holds his gaze for a long moment, before he breathes out a heavy sigh and plants his hands on the table, rocking himself onto his feet. Before he can step back, though, Aramis touches his wrist, and with a quick little flick of his thumb, draws out the king of hearts from Porthos’ sleeve. He runs the pad of his thumb over the king’s face and then up at Porthos. 

“Oh,” Porthos says, voice flat. He plucks the card from Aramis’ hand and tosses it onto the table. He says, dry and innocent, “How did that get in there?” 

Aramis looks downright delighted rather than angry. “I like watching you cheat.” 

Porthos lifts an eyebrow. Somehow, that hadn’t been the response he expected. Perhaps he should have. “Do you?” 

Aramis’ grin turns wicked as he says, slow and warm, “It reminds me that you’re talented with those hands of yours. I like that.” 

Porthos is a little drunk, but not inebriated enough not to feel a small flush of – something inside of him. He ducks his head, hiding a smile, and pulls a few more face cards from his sleeve – the jack of clubs and the ace of hearts. 

“I was wondering where those got to,” Aramis admits. 

Porthos waits a beat, but Aramis says nothing more. So Porthos says, “I’m surprised you’re so entertained.” 

Aramis shrugs. “A few coins are well worth spending to watch you have fun.” 

Porthos’ lips twitch. “You think I had fun?”

“I know you had fun,” Aramis corrects, and then Porthos does just flat-out grin. Aramis’ answering smile is blinding and unrestrained. The night is near its end but Porthos finds he doesn’t want it to end – finds that there’s some kind of surety in Aramis’ company, even if he associates with someone like Marsac, even if he’s all laughter and smiles that he only half-means, even if Porthos wonders at the way his hand drifts to his pistol occasionally or the bruises on his neck. 

Tonight, though, Aramis’ smile is soft as silk. Aramis is the kind of man who never would have flourished in the life Porthos came from. Charon would've taken Aramis as an invitation to lift all his coin and leave him destitute in the center of the Court. Flea would have snubbed him with a delicate snort but kept her distance all the same, deeming him too elegant for the squalor of her life, untrusting and distant. And Porthos—

Well, Porthos isn’t sure anymore. 

“So what else can those hands of yours do?” Aramis asks, his grin turning sly.

Porthos reaches out his hand towards Aramis’ ear, and retreats holding a gold coin, seemingly from thin air. Aramis laughs, delighted, his eyes lighting up. Aramis says, almost breathless, sounding like one might when wooing another, “You’re really rather wonderful, aren’t you?” 

Porthos’ grin turns slightly crooked, embarrassed. He hands the coin to Aramis. “It’s about time someone noticed.” 

“Oh,” Aramis whispers. “I have.” 

Porthos smiles at him, rather helplessly. 

This is the moment that Porthos falls in love with Aramis – although he won’t yet realize it for some time to come. 

 

-

 

With that, Aramis becomes something of a fixture in Porthos’ life. It’s a strange turn of events, really. Where others regard him with a distance, Aramis is overly friendly. It is unnerving to find an arm wrapped around his shoulder. Most unnerving part of all: Porthos has come to expect it, notices it when it’s gone. 

Aramis seems to regard him as something of a project – and Porthos doesn’t know if it is a project he has taken on himself or, far worse a prospect, been assigned. Porthos has flashed the captain a few covert looks over the last few days, trying to determine if there are ulterior motives to him leaning against the railing and watching the proceedings of the training exercise, tried to determine if there’s a hidden meaning passing between the captain and Aramis as he nudges Porthos in the shoulder when passing by. 

If there is anything that Porthos is, however, it is adaptable. And once it becomes clear that his usual approach of silence and intimidation is not working, he changes it. He smiles. He laughs. He lets himself be. He has nothing to prove. He has what he wants. And whatever he is and whatever he does, Aramis is there. He might as well enjoy the company while it lasts. 

Aramis catches on and his bright, beaming smiles accompany Porthos’ tentative ones. “Make room,” he’ll call to a collection of musketeers, and guide himself and Porthos over to the table. “You won’t believe how starving we are.” 

Where Porthos goes, Aramis is something like a shadow, when he is actually in the garrison during daylight hours. He finds spaces between musketeers where they can both fit, and Aramis pulls others into easy conversations. Aramis is something of a loner, as Porthos knows – and it is with a quiet dread that he realizes that these efforts are for Porthos’ own benefit. 

He never says a word to it, but several weeks in, a musketeer named Dupont greets Porthos by tipping his hat and giving a curt but friendly _du Vallon_ without any shadow of resentment to the name. And with a small nod as they pass by one another, as they do every morning, Porthos is startled enough to realize that, quite easily, he has become incorporated. He does not know if this is reassurance or disgust, that it took Aramis’ flamboyant vanity and inherent stubbornness to bring him to this point. 

There is more to Aramis, this Porthos can tell. But Aramis seems to bask in being as he is. He is vain and he is all about panache and flattery. He is a nuisance, but, begrudgingly, Porthos can admit that his conversations and presence is the one he remembers the most day by day. They are not friends, he doesn’t think so at least – but as Porthos integrates into daily rotation and Aramis does his own duties, and they do not cross paths as much as before, he can admit to himself that he’s grateful for Aramis’ part. 

“Make room,” Aramis teases one day. 

“Spar with me,” Aramis says the next day, swiping his sword through the air.

“Come drinking,” he says on another. 

“Don’t miss me while I’m gone,” he teases the night before leaving for a training mission in the south. 

Porthos accepts it all. Already, he finds it easier to smile – already, he’s smiled more than he can remember having done in years. Aramis has that effect on him. 

Had things remained as they were, Porthos would spend his years in the regiment distant but accepted, doing his work and thinking nothing of Aramis beyond that he is a pest but true-hearted, and their friendship would have been superficial at best. There would not have been anything else to it – just two men who might have been, who knew one another and were, occasionally, friendly. Porthos would have spent his years a musketeer and thought little of Aramis, and that would have been that. 

But instead, Aramis dies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JL has drawn two pieces of beautiful fanart for this chapter, which you can find [here](http://jlsdrawings.tumblr.com/post/123218983864/you-really-are-ridiculous-porthos-breathes) and [here](http://jlsdrawings.tumblr.com/post/123219177344/so-what-else-can-those-hands-of-yours-do). AND EXCUSE ME WHILE I LIE ON THE FLOOR BECAUSE IT'S SO BEAUTIFUL AND PERFECT AND _YOU CAN SEE THAT THEY'RE IN LOVE._ oh no. I'm a mess.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How funny, that Hell should be so cold and covered in snow rather than hellfire and brimstone. How funny, that Hell is the silence following a slaughter more than the slaughter itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, I wanted to get this up a few days ago - but I've had a week from hell in terms of work! But, here it is! 
> 
> It's a bit choppy in places, I know, and I'm a little uncertain about it overall... but I hope you enjoy it all the same. I'm also working on the next chapters and on the fence about maybe having to up the number of chapters... It might end up being an eight or nine chapter story. But we'll see! Might just settle for having bigger chapters in the future, too. 
> 
> Thank you everyone, as always, for your lovely support on this story so far. ♥

Porthos doesn’t learn that something went wrong in Savoy until a few days after the fact – on a chilled, damp morning. 

Lent and Easter have come and gone. The regiment, as a whole, has been rather quiet for Porthos. Ever since Aramis’ departure with the other musketeers to Savoy, the garrison’s been a little lackluster. He remembers the night before Aramis left for Savoy, remembers him telling Porthos in passing that he’d miss his delightful smiles. He remembers Aramis grinning, eyes lighting up as he wondered aloud if Porthos would miss him, too. 

Although Porthos hadn’t said anything at the time – had just snorted a little, rolled his eyes, ducked his head to ignore him – the conversation stuck with him. It’s already days later, and he still finds himself thinking about Aramis at random points in the day – in the middle of breakfast, during his rotation, at night when he’s getting ready to sleep. Just as passing, harmless thought. 

When he walks into the garrison this particular morning, cold and damp and already wanting to crawl back into bed and sleep a few hours more, there are murmuring musketeers in their small huddles. Porthos pauses but doesn’t approach, his eyes darting over each group curiously, but brief. Aramis was always best for dishing out the gossip, and without him nearby to carry on about it, Porthos finds little interest in finding out what his fellow soldiers are speaking of. If it’s important, after all, he’ll be told. 

Or, barring that, Aramis will return and likely fill him in – as if Porthos himself were the one away for days on end. He should be back soon, though. If he remembers rightly, Aramis and his company were meant to be back either yesterday or today. 

He tries not to think of Aramis too often, when he’s gone. Aramis slips into his thoughts, unbidden, and Porthos tells himself it is because there is no one else worth thinking about. Nothing more. They haven’t spent too much time together on rotation – Aramis a veteran soldier and Porthos still too new for them to interact much on duty. They spend some time together, occasionally, whenever Aramis can convince him to go drinking. Overall, they have only spent some time together – nothing enough to warrant Porthos’ thoughts lingering. 

Aramis gone for Savoy is no different – but he finds himself thinking of him without realizing it. He likes to envision Aramis charming any passing lady on the road, all smiles and charisma. He thinks to himself that Aramis would whine bitterly about being out in the cold, in the snow, and sleeping on the ground. He can picture what Aramis will say when he returns, pronounce that Porthos must take pity on him and buy him a drink – as if they are best friends for years, as if it is easy. For Aramis, it always been that easy. He is, as he’s well aware, stupidly charming. 

“What’s going on?” he asks a passing musketeer – Charles, he think the name is, but he isn’t certain. 

Charles falters in his step and looks as if he isn’t sure he wants to answer Porthos. He’s a nervous lad, skittish and uncertain – still adapting to soldiery. He fiddles with his fingertips and then says, “Something about Savoy.” 

“What about it?” Porthos asks, thinking of Aramis’ laughter and the easy way he shrugs his shoulders when he’s amused. 

“Something went wrong,” Charles says.

“And?” Porthos asks, a dread filling him so suddenly, so visceral in its suddenness that he almost sways on the spot.

But Charles is shaking his head. “I don’t—” 

And he looks as if he’ll keep walking after that, lacking any other information – but Porthos is moving before he quite realizes it, hands fisting up in his collar, the fabric rough beneath his hands. Porthos knows he shouldn’t, because this is not sparring and this is not training and other musketeers are looking now, but the world has zeroed in on Charles and he won’t go – he can’t let go. The movement is sudden and encompassing – he does it without truly realizing. But he does it, all the same. He pushes Charles up a little, his strength lifting him easily to the tips of his feet and pressing him up against the wall, his fists tight in his clothes. 

“What,” he grits out, bites between his teeth, his voice slow and deliberate, “went wrong? What happened? Tell me.” 

Charles stares at him – looks as if he will shake apart or spit, or call him a brute, and instead he says with a gasping breath, “Put me down.” 

He’s looking at him in a wide-eyed kind of shock. Porthos can’t blame him. His reaction shocks him, too. His eyes are wide, his hands are fisted too tightly to shake. He is waiting for the calls of mongrel, of brute, of savage – his own strength, his own force far too shocking for him to even properly breathe. 

There is a long, ringing silence – but Porthos doesn’t move. And then, slowly, he breathes. He slackens his hold on the collar, sets Charles down onto his feet properly. He must look murderous – he can hear the murmurs around the courtyard. 

“Tell me,” he gasps out, staring down Charles long and hard. Charles, for his part, doesn’t back down. 

“I don’t know anything – no one does,” Charles answers and there is a touch of defiance to his tone. 

Porthos knows he must look strange like this – that something must be off in his face, for someone who claims to have no attachments, to have no friendship. But he thinks of Aramis, and he thinks of _something went wrong_ and he has to know. He needs to know. He also needs to be less obvious. 

He thinks of Aramis – undemanding, toothy smiles and magnetism, his eyes dark and dishonest yet strangely trustworthy. 

He releases Charles, who makes a quick exit, and Porthos sits down heavily at the table he’s eaten so many breakfasts at – sat here and listened to Aramis yammer beside him and wonder just when he would be left in peace. Everyone around him is sullen, on-edge. If Aramis were here, he’d likely know how to break the tension. But he isn’t here. 

_Something went wrong._

The day passes in a blur – no one really leaves the regiment, everyone ambling around waiting for some kind of news, from the captain or from the scouts he’s dispatched. Rumors buzz and drinks flow, but it is a solemn scene. Porthos stares into his cup, drinks it down, and tastes nothing. He’s just as uneasy as the others. He’s uneasy that he should be reacting this way – a kind of dull surprise at his own reaction, at his own steadfast _need_ for Aramis to come back. 

By the time it hits evening, a scout arrives and moves to Treville’s office before anyone can waylay him for information. He slinks through the crowd like liquid and he’s already halfway up the stairs, moving two at a time, before anyone quite registers that he’s there. 

By the time it’s gone dark and the moon is hanging low over the gate to the garrison, every man in the garrison knows that the camp outside Savoy was ambushed in the night and that everyone has been killed. 

Killed. 

Porthos can’t stand. He sits at the table and stares down into his drink and wonders if he’s having some kind of nightmare. He hasn’t had nightmares since he left the Court, hasn’t woken up in a cold sweat or with a muffled shout, hasn’t felt that constricting, painful squeeze to his chest in so many years. Not since he was a boy, gangly and desperate and always, always hungry. It doesn’t even occur to him that he should feel so strangely disjointed. He didn’t know Aramis. 

Not really. 

Hardly at all. 

Maybe a little. 

He regrets that he didn’t. Perhaps he was only a passing fancy to him, perhaps he was just a project – assigned to him or taken on himself. Perhaps he was nothing to Aramis but a passing dalliance. An amusement. But Porthos wishes, suddenly, that he’d known him. The force of that wish is thudding and painful – and fruitless. 

Too late now. 

He should go back to his quarters. He should do something. But he can’t move from where he sits. It’s dark. It’s cold. 

He wishes he’d known him. 

He just sits there. He sits there for far longer than he’s even fully aware. 

He tries to make himself understand Aramis being dead. An odd thought, really, to imagine someone he thought of in passing only this morning, imagined him smiling, hair in his eyes, his hand on a lady’s hip. An odd thought, someone so vibrant and full of life to just be dead like that. 

He’s dead. He makes himself think it a few times, trying to let it breach, trying to make it stick. He thinks it, a few times, in hopes that it will set in. He’s dead. Just like that. 

“He’s dead,” he says, quiet and still, down into his drink. 

His drink doesn’t answer – but that’s little relief in the grand scheme of things. His hand grips around the cup. His other hand grips at his knee and squeezes hard, searching for some kind of sensation. 

He’s dead. 

Just like that.

It hits him like a blow to the head – well-placed and precise. He has seen Aramis in laughter, teasing, leaning against the post to the stables as Porthos mucked it out and telling him that he looks nice today despite the sweat and shit. He’s seen Aramis as they go on rotation together, the deadly, lethal force that Aramis can draw his weapon, knee someone hard in the gut, smack their heads down hard against the ground. Aramis is a soldier, and a damn good one. Aramis is laughter and honeyed words and those teasing, quirking smiles. Aramis is darkened longing, lethal precision, the best shot in the entire regiment. 

Aramis is dead. 

Just like that.

Ambushed. Just like that – dead. He died on the cold ground – likely not even awake enough to realize what was happening to him. Likely not even aware enough to realize he was dying. No last words, no last confession, nothing to last. Just gone in a blink of an eye. He wonders if it was quick or if it was painful. He wonders if he knew what was happening. He wonders if he fought. He wonders if he begged for mercy. He wonders if he suffered. 

Aramis, who smiled at Porthos when the rest would have ignored him – smiled at him when they went on rotation together and there was a thrilling promise of _danger_ , like that was fun and not unsafe. Aramis, who never took things seriously – who smiled at Porthos even as he was beaten black and blue by Porthos’ own fists. Aramis, who laughed out in delight when he plucked a king of hearts from Porthos’ sleeve, like it was a grand achievement and not a sin. Aramis, whose eyes lit up when Porthos showed him the coin from behind his ear, who then tried to do the same trick and flubbed it spectacularly. Aramis, who always waved to him in the morning. Aramis, who always bid him a good night before he sank into the shadows with a woman or a sparkle of coin between his fingertips. Aramis, who’d float into the garrison smelling of perfume and grinning a wide smile, a tom-cat returning from a long night. Aramis, who draped over his shoulder once just so Porthos could smell a lady’s perfume. Just for the thrill of it. 

Aramis. 

 

-

 

Porthos doesn’t know how long he sits there, doesn’t know just how much he drinks. All he knows is that he is alone and it is silent. The garrison is deathly hushed now – and he suspects it always will be for Porthos. An unspoken, broken thing. It will never be the same. Something has been lost that can never return. 

They don’t even know why the musketeers were slaughtered in their sleep – who and what and why. Aramis hates the snow – he told Porthos so the night before he left, slurred it out around some wine, whined that he always hated the cold and hated the snow and would much rather be in a nice, warm bed pressed up against someone equally as warm. In hindsight, Porthos wonders if that was an invitation he failed to grasp. 

Maybe if Porthos had been there, too—

—he’d have been slaughtered in his sleep. But the thought comes suddenly, unrestrained. Maybe if he’d been there. _Maybe if he’d been there._

His stomach is empty, save for wine, and it sloshes and churns unpleasantly in his knotted up stomach. Aramis hates the snow. He’s probably lying in it right now, just as cold – just a body now. No longer Aramis. 

When he looks up from his cup again, the garrison has cleared out. It’s deep into the night. The nightwatch beyond the garrison walls isn’t patrolling anymore and Porthos is alone. 

His chest aches. He wonders at that. It didn’t hurt this much when he left the Court. Flea and Charon aren’t dead, but he never visits them and doesn’t write – they wouldn’t and couldn’t read his words even if he did. They might as well be ghosts, the past haunting him from time to time, but as intangible to him as his mother’s life, also lost. They come to him in broken fragments. But they are, irrevocably, gone. 

It aches now. Not the way it did to lose her, but it aches all the same. A familiar, friendly face – someone who might have cared for a moment had he died out in Savoy instead, had their positions been reversed. Even if just for a moment. 

He wanders the garrison. He picks up a broom. Replaces it. Retrieves it again and sweeps at the hay littering across the courtyard. He has no reason. No one asked it of him. No one would care if he returned to his quarters. No one would care if he stayed here. No one would care if he disappeared just like everyone else. He thinks of the late nights, struggling over his writing practices, Aramis appearing in his doorway and asking him if he’d like to go get a drink, if he’d like to go to a brothel with him, if he’d like to just stay up and talk, if he’d like to hide Aramis away from an angry husband. Overtures of friendship that Porthos had snubbed in the beginning and yet longs for now. Longs to look up and find Aramis sitting sprawled out on the steps leading to Treville’s office and grinning at him, appreciating the view of Porthos humbled like this, his lips quirking as he says, _See, I knew you liked me more than you let on._

And God, it’s true. It’s fucking true – he _cared_. And now it’s too late. 

He sweeps, if only to give his hands something to do. He can’t process it. He thinks of Aramis – dead and alone in the snow, no one who knows or cares about him down there to take up his body with the kindness and gentleness he deserves. Treating him like a discarded thing rather than a man who once lived and breathed. He hopes the crows don’t get to him before the musketeers’ scouts can retrieve them all for their burial. Twenty-two dead musketeers. 

Aramis, gone. 

 

-

 

A day passes, and the garrison is like a graveyard. There are no new duties heading out, and it makes sense that it would be so. Porthos doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t eat. He drinks a little, but the wine makes his head fuzzy – and while it dulls the ever-present march of his thoughts on Aramis, it also leaves him feeling too vulnerable, too maudlin. 

His hand holds the broom. It gives him something to do. 

He sweeps, and he sweeps, and he sweeps some more. It gives him something to do. At least something. One thing. He does it for hours, late into the night and until the sky threatens sunrise. He’s exhausted, almost approaching a day since he last slept, even longer since he last ate. 

He stares down at the ground, because that is all he can do. 

Aramis is gone. 

He hears hoof-beats and he looks up in time to see a rider swing into the garrison – echoes bouncing off the walls. Porthos doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there, presumably sweeping, but his knuckles are sore from the tight grip, half-moon marks from his nails dug into his palms – and there are worry marks where the shaft of the broom rubbed too hard. 

The man almost tumbles from his horse, which whinnies softly and trembles from his gallop. Porthos moves to help the scout down – a man he doesn’t recognize, who doesn’t wear the sign of the musketeers – grabs his elbow and hauls him down onto his feet. He sways much, gasps for breath, and says, “I must speak with Captain Treville of the King’s Musketeers.” 

Porthos doesn’t hesitate, but he rocks for one moment – for one moment entertains the idea of demanding he tell him instead, but the moment is fleeting and he’s quick to get the man moving, pushes him up the stairs, directs him to the captain’s office. His own hands are shaking, not quite praying, but there is a starvation there – some kind of hopeless, startling _need_ for good news, hopes it is good news, can’t imagine what could be worse news than all of the musketeers in Savoy being dead. 

When the man stumbles his way into Treville’s office, still out of breath, Porthos hesitates, unsure if he should leave or not – and then he hears the man tell Treville, “Twenty bodies on a cart traveling back to burial, Sir. The man responsible—” 

He keeps talking but Porthos’ ears are full of buzzing. Treville’s shock is clear – and how grim he’d looked before then, Porthos too dragged down by his own shock and torment to register just how defeated and deflated the captain looks. Ashen-faced and eyes tight at the edges. Understandably, considering he’d just lost twenty-two men. Or—

“Twenty?” Porthos asks, his voice tight and breathless – disbelieving, but wanting to. God, how he wants to believe. His stomach is churning, empty save for his own anxiety. He knows he shouldn’t be here, knows that the captain should dismiss him – and yet his eyes are wide, his hands are shaking, and there is a burning, devastating _hope_ that flares to life inside of him. And for one goddamn moment he understands the heaviness of his head, understands why so many take to religion without question, finally understands why prayer can be thick enough to be intoxicating, because he is practically shaking from head to toe, heart too heavy for words, but desperate to hear the answer, to hear who the two missing are. 

“Porthos,” Treville says, and his words are firm but not unkind. “Shut the door behind you.” 

Porthos hesitates, wants to protest, wants to _hear_ , but instead he just nods and slips from the captain’s office, shutting the door behind him. He leans against the door for one moment and takes in a shuddering breath, something pressing to the back of his eyes that he refuses to acknowledge as tears. His heart is hammering and he wanders, knows he’s wandering, knows he’s wandering and doesn’t care. 

There are two musketeers still alive. He doesn’t know their condition – doesn’t know how badly wounded they might be, doesn’t know if they’ll be alive once they even return to Paris – he doesn’t even know who they are. But something snaps inside of him as he somehow, miraculously, makes his way back to his quarters and lies down in his bed and stares up at the ceiling. 

Perhaps Aramis isn’t dead. 

Porthos’ heart is too quiet in his chest. 

 

-

 

The rumors, of course, stir. Two musketeers still alive despite the carnage. Questions abound, and Treville dispatches more musketeer scouts to get down towards Savoy and waylay the cart of the deceased and search out for the two survivors. 

Porthos almost volunteers to go down with them, but his horse skills are still a work in progress and he doesn’t feel he has the right to ask it of Treville, still a new musketeer even now. And besides, he and Aramis are hardly friends—

And he doesn’t know what he would do if it really wasn’t Aramis who survived. Doesn’t know how he’d handle moving to the cart carrying the deceased and seeing Aramis’ lifeless face there. 

Porthos spends the next few days in a wandering, waking sleep. He hardly remembers what he eats or what he drinks, whether he sleeps or merely stands there in quiet surety. His mind roils with his own questions, with that quiet, thrumming hope he’s afraid to acknowledge too deeply – perhaps Aramis is not dead. Perhaps he still breathes. Perhaps he’s still alive. 

Two days later, the deceased arrive back to the garrison for their burial. They’re laid out, gentle and mournful – and there are a few musketeers who move with a steady kind of sadness. Friends, then, left behind. Porthos feels regret, perhaps, but it isn’t the first time he’s seen so many bodies laid out in a row. The Court had outbreaks of illness after all – fever and misery and upset. At least these are men, although dead before their time. Porthos remembers children, starving in corners, infants passing in their mother’s arms. This, at least, is not a loss he is unfamiliar with – but still, the taste of death will always be sour, he thinks. 

And yet he feels his heart beat when he looks over every face, searching for recognition – and Aramis is not there. Aramis is missing. 

Aramis is not dead. 

And just like that, he is back from the dead. His heart beats hard into his chest, presses against his throat. He can’t breathe for a moment at the sheer _force_ of his relief. 

It’s a strange thing to contemplate, as he stares out at the dead faces of men he’ll never truly know, only strangers – that he should be relieved that these twenty are not Aramis. Strange to think there’s a reprieve there, because it means that Aramis is still alive. The thought rattles into his head and he almost staggers back in disgust at himself for it. It is a sickening truth, but he acknowledges it – something inside of him is glad that, of the twenty-two, it is Aramis who survives. It is a truth of the world that men are born free but not equal. It is clear to him now that, of the men in the garrison, there is one he weighs above all others. There is one that proved himself. There is one that Porthos _misses._

There is one that he knows, without a doubt, deserves to live. He can mourn for the twenty men he will never know. The twenty strangers who might have one day been brothers. But more than that, he is relieved. He is relieved and disgusted at that relief.

But Aramis is alive. 

The garrison is silent as musketeers stand still, remove their hats, find the sheets to cover over the bodies until there is nothing to distinguish the twenty from one another. Porthos has known loss, has seen loss – but even that image is one that leaves him feeling very tightened up, small and unimportant. Twenty bodies beneath the sheets, twenty bodies that once belonged to men who lived and breathed, who laughed and smiled and knew love and loss and pain – who were soldiers, who lived, who had families and friends and people who cared about them. And just like that, they’re done and gone. 

Life is like that. Porthos knows that well – has seen enough people in his life alive one day and dead the next. So is the life of being a soldier. So is the life of being a mongrel from the Court. 

Treville sends the carts away, his face grim, white as the sheets that cover the bodies. He doesn’t say a word, just walks amongst the dead, and Porthos wonders if this is what the captain looks like after every unsuccessful mission, every pursuit gone wrong. This was meant to just be a training exercise, and there is still confusion as to who is responsible and as to what happened. 

Word comes back that Aramis, wounded, is traveling along the main highway back to Paris – he’ll return in two days. The last survivor, Marsac, is hardly mentioned – and when he is, it is with spitting contempt. Porthos does not know the details, suspects that few do. Aramis, the sole survivor, has been tight-lipped with details to the scouts, saying he’ll only speak with Treville on the matter. That he is awake enough to say such a thing makes Porthos feel twisted up inside – ashamed to be so comforted in the face of this tragedy, and yet relieved all the same. 

 

-

 

It is just by luck that Porthos is in the garrison when Aramis returns. Or, perhaps, not quite luck and rather Porthos’ own relentlessness. He’s found that he can’t sleep ever since that night he learned Aramis might be alive – collapsing into his bed and passing out. After that, his own thoughts uncertain and unsteadied, sleep never really came to him. He spends his evenings in the garrison, shuffling a deck of cards or cleaning his pistol just for the sake of giving his hands work to do. 

When he hears hoofbeats, though, and looks up, he somehow doesn’t expect it to be Aramis – and yet it is. There he is. He sees Aramis again for the first time after being brought back from the dead.

He’s bandaged around his head, and he’s holding his reins stiffly in his grip as he slides down off the saddle. He either hasn’t noticed Porthos yet or he’s ignoring him. He flinches a little as he lands on his feet. He looks pale, visibly tired, but not as badly hurt as Porthos feared. 

Porthos is standing before he quite realizes he’s doing so, stepping forward, grasping the reins. Aramis turns, his reaction time slower than it might have been under normal circumstances. He looks at Porthos for half a moment longer than necessary to recognize him. He blinks once. 

And Aramis smiles at him – faint, automatic, and meaningless. Devastatingly empty. 

Porthos looks at him for a long moment, his grip on the reins tight. He can’t speak, he can’t even react. He just holds the horse steady and _looks_. That relief, that shattering hope he’d felt before – it all rushes out of him. He can’t even recognize that he feels anything at all. There is only Aramis, alive again. 

Aramis has cut his hair. That’s the first thing that Porthos notices about him. His hair is short, shorter around the ears, haphazard and quick – not a choice of fashion but rather one of necessity to get at a festering wound. Not a choice at all. 

“It’s short,” he says, and feels foolish as soon as the words leave his mouth. 

Aramis’ faint, unsettling smile remains as he says, “There was blood in it.” As if that is a natural greeting, stated and traveled light between them. And then he says, softer, his expression slackening as he seems to fully recognize him and where he stands, “Porthos…” 

This is the first time he’s seen Aramis since thinking he was dead, since realizing that he had returned from the dead. Words do not come to Porthos, but he has never been good with words. So he stands there, feeling the fool, holding Aramis’ mare like a lifeline. 

“Hey,” he finally says, light, a greeting, not sure what else to say, not sure where else to begin. He has witnessed death and pain, loss and sorrow – long ago, in the Court. But where Charon would sob and Flea would bite out harsh words she didn’t mean, throw punches at Porthos until he relented and left her be, here Aramis is too quiet, too still, too calm. Porthos remembers the days after his mother passed with her fever, remembers being broken, silent, and unmoving. When Flea and Charon found him, he was already half-dead with the sorrow and heartbreak even more than any hunger or sickness. Aramis looks too lost to be anything other than despondent. 

He looks at Porthos and, finally, that painted smile fades into something dimmer before it disappears entirely and Aramis only stands there, eyes scanning across the garrison as if he has only just seen it for the first time in his life – born anew through blood and snow. 

“I,” Aramis begins, and then falls silent. Porthos says nothing, doesn’t push him. 

Porthos looks at Aramis, somewhat helplessly, and he takes his arm – the one Aramis isn’t holding stiff. Aramis lets him. Porthos leads him to the bench he’d been sitting on before, where his cards are strewn out across the table, abandoned and unimportant even as three of his six kings whisk away into the wind. Aramis looks at the cards but doesn’t seem to register them, and Porthos is quick to get Aramis’ mare back into the stables, to dress her down and hang up the saddle before he goes back to Aramis. 

Aramis is watching the gate to the garrison. He glances at Porthos but doesn’t seem willing to break his gaze – looking back at the archway soon enough. “I keep hoping I’m wrong,” he says as greeting. He’s watching the gate. “I keep thinking – he’ll come back. He’ll catch up. He’ll find me.” 

Porthos is silent, unsure what to say to that. He does not understand what it is that’s become of Marsac, just where exactly he is if not dead and not beside Aramis. He doubts Aramis would tell him even if he were to ask. The rumors about him are wild – but Aramis says nothing more. Porthos doesn’t ask. He would never ask him when he’s in this state. 

“… I’ll get the captain,” Porthos says after a moment, feeling utterly unprepared to offer comfort. It’s clear it’s the captain that Aramis wants and needs. His hands fumble a little as he takes a step back, curses himself for not thinking of grabbing a doctor as Aramis stares at the garrison’s gate. 

Aramis shakes his head, though. “No. Bring me to him.” 

Porthos nods once, takes up Aramis’ arm, and helps lead him up the stairs to the captain’s office. Aramis glances over his shoulder twice towards the gate, but at the top of the stairs he just breathes out, sags into himself and ducks his head – not looking at anything but his feet. 

Porthos leaves them after that, uncertain and unsteady – wishing he could stay and unwilling to examine why. 

 

-

 

Marsac is gone.

That much Aramis is able to convey to Treville. The word will spread around the regiment soon enough, but Aramis is still confused. It’s to be expected, given the state of his injuries, but when he thinks on what happened, it’s all a cluster of images and shouts, men dying, the snow red. He doesn’t like to remember it but knows that it’s all blurring information that Treville desperately needs. He’s grim-faced and withdrawn as he questions Aramis, gives him a glass of wine, lets him take his time as the surgeon looks him over. Prods at his stitches until Aramis flinches. 

He can confirm that Marsac left. He can confirm that Marsac ripped off his pauldron and uniform and stumbled away. He refuses to say it’s desertion. 

He remembers the look in Marsac’s eyes – the way he’d looked at Aramis, looked around the camp. The way he’d simply looked away. Wandered away. Disappeared and left Aramis there. 

Something thuds down inside of him, slow and unsettled. It can’t be discretion. 

He lists the events to Treville until he stops breathing, until he sinks down into the memories and ends up staring blank-faced at the captain’s desk. Treville has to shake him out of it, much to the surgeon’s chagrin – who scolds the captain for manhandling an injured man. Aramis hardly hears any of it. He stares down at his hands, ashamed. 

Light spills into the captain’s office from the dusty little window and Aramis frowns down at his wine – confused, dazed. Marsac should be here. Marsac could be here at any moment. 

The gate should be left open. Marsac is going to catch up. 

His hands shake. 

He is at once lost and angry at him – suddenly so angry at him, for leaving him like that, for leaving him in the dark like that. He’s grateful, he’s painfully grateful that he was dragged away, and his arm hurts precisely because Marsac dragged him with such force, shouted at him in words that Aramis now can’t recall or understand. Everything is a blur. 

He remembers Marsac. He remembers the look in his eyes when he turned back towards Aramis. Aramis trying to shout after him as Marsac stumbled away into the woods. 

Marsac, gone. 

He did nothing wrong. That’s what Aramis wants to say, that’s what Aramis should say – even through his anger, Marsac did nothing wrong. Marsac is a good man. Marsac is his friend—

He can’t really be gone. 

When he rattles his way out of Treville’s office under strict orders to get to his quarters and get some rest, on temporary leave, Aramis sees Porthos down below, collecting scattered playing cards. His movements are stilted, swallowed up, and the wind keeps whipping away the cards he has managed to collect because he’s so distracted and disjointed. He hears Porthos curse, loud and fluent. Aramis stays in the doorway, just watching him for a moment. Porthos doesn’t realize he has an audience and thus continues on in this manner, cursing whenever he loses what he’s managed to scramble together. 

It’s the first time he’s really seeing Porthos again, after it all. His head feels just as fuzzy as the night in Savoy. His heart thuds at the mere thought. No. He can’t think about it. Not right now. Not after he’s recited every little detail to Treville, who became more and more withdrawn as the story progressed. 

He doesn’t want to talk. 

The bodies have since been moved from the garrison, he thinks, but he can still smell the lingering trails of death. To many in the garrison, they would be just bodies. For Aramis, they were all men he knew, knew and laughed with – knew well enough to know exactly how to tease them. Knew what they drank, how much they drank before they were done. Knew how they smiled, how they laughed. He knew how some of them tasted, how they kissed. He saw them every day. He joked with them. 

And now they are all dead. And he is alive. Every last one of them. Dead. 

He steps down the stairs, loud enough so that Porthos will hear him. Aramis watches as Porthos whips his head up and he curses again as his cards go scattering completely and he gives up on trying to collect them in favor of approaching Aramis. He stops short, shifts back, his hands slack at his side and uncertain. Uncertain how to speak to him, uncertain what to say. Porthos always was a man of chosen words. He wonders why Porthos lingers now, lingers still. 

He looks at Porthos, takes him in, memorizes him. What a fresh face he has, despite likely having lived a poor, difficult life. There were whispers amongst the garrison of Porthos’ possible criminal background that Aramis now scoffs at – but seeing his face now, up close, there’s some kind of comfort in it. This is a face that has seen war and misery and death – and yet he remains strong in the face of it. Not untouched – he can see the way his eyes flicker over Aramis’ face. Not untouched, but unbroken. Aramis envies him. Perhaps someday he can be like that. Perhaps someday Porthos can teach him. 

Or, perhaps, someday it won’t even matter to Aramis. 

Aramis wishes he could be like that. For all his years as a soldier, this is not something he ever thought he’d have to experience or live through. He’d envisioned his life ending on a battlefield, not limping along in the aftermath of it. 

It wasn’t a battle at all. It was a slaughter. 

His face must shift enough, because Porthos steps forward and takes his elbow. “I’ll take you back to your room.”

“No,” he says weakly, and looks up at Porthos. He breathes out and closes his eyes. He tips his chin up, tilts his head, tries to stay calm. “Will…” he trails off, clears his throat. “Take me to a church?” 

Porthos hesitates, and Aramis can see him grappling with the desire to do as Aramis asks and insist on him resting. Porthos’ eyes cast around, and he sighs out and closes his eyes. There is something pleasant about the way Porthos looks in the moonlight, somehow grounding and yet ethereal. He knows Porthos would scoff, if he were to say that. 

In the end, Porthos relents. “Is there one that will even let you in at this hour?”

“The time is always good for God’s mercy,” Aramis says, faint – with just a touch of self-deprecation. 

Porthos leads him from the garrison, though – a hand on his good arm, touching at his elbow when Aramis starts to noticeably limp. They move in silence, and Aramis is eternally grateful for it – not wanting to speak, but not wanting to be alone. 

Once at the church, Porthos stops at the steps. Aramis turns a little, looks at Porthos in question. Porthos looks down and shrugs, says, “I’ll wait out here, if it’s alright with you.”

“You don’t want to come in?” Aramis asks. 

Porthos isn’t looking at him when he shrugs again. His voice is light, purposefully for, but it sounds like some kind of test, some kind of confession when he says, “Churches make me uncomfortable.” 

Aramis knows that this is something important, something that Porthos would not normally say – and so Aramis hesitates, although he does not feel any shred of sanity left inside him to take on more hurt. He is too hurt. He cannot possibly shoulder Porthos’, and Porthos is not offering it. And yet, there is something in the way Porthos’ face twists up that makes Aramis’ heart throb for one moment. 

“Porthos,” he whispers. 

“It’s fine,” Porthos interrupts, quickly, and nods towards the large, grand doors to the church before them. “Just go. I’ll wait here.” 

He wants to tell him to come. The idea of being alone – by himself in the dark, curled up into himself. He wants to insist. He wants to reach out, beg Porthos for his protection. 

Porthos studies his face, eyebrows slanting upwards. And he says, quiet, “I’ll be right outside the door. If you shout, I’ll hear you.” 

Aramis hesitates, sways on his feet for a moment. Porthos reaches out to him immediately and steadies him, and his hands are a grounding anchor. Aramis looks at him somewhat helplessly, for the first time in so long feeling a complete loss for words and hoping that Porthos can understand his gratefulness through looks alone. He thinks he must be at some crossroads with the way Porthos looks back at him, but then he turns and enters the church instead of staying with him out on the empty street. 

 

-

 

Porthos waits outside the church for hours. He sits on the steps for a long while, so long as there’s no one around to see him in his blatant disrespect it should be alright. He taps his fingertips on his knees. 

He never took to the church. There were a few near the entrance to the Court, when Porthos actually strayed out – and the one time he’d stepped into one, lost and hungry and a little afraid, it was to search for anything worth stealing. Instead, he’d found pity and a brief breath of compassion but more an overwhelming amount of distrust and hatred – only a few glances needed to convey just how blatantly unwanted he was, just how clearly the patrons did not wish for a dirty bastard wandering in off the street and soiling their floors and pews with his filth. 

Aramis stays in there even once the sun starts to come up and Porthos realizes the true extent of his fatigue. He stands once the early-morning merchants and maidswomen start traversing the busy street, and even like this he feels too obvious. He stays at his post, however self-appointed, and just watches as people go about their lives – all bustling, all alive. None approach the church, but it’s just as well. He wouldn’t want anyone going in there and disturbing Aramis while he’s alone with his God. 

There’s a pick-pocketing child on the other side of the street and Porthos watches him for a long while, more curious than anything else. He’s so far away that even noticing the child betrays his lack of skill, still young and fumbling with his hands. When he looks up and catches Porthos, a musketeer, watching him, he freezes up with a woman’s purse clutched in his hands. 

Porthos looks at him for a moment longer and then turns his head. He walks along the length of the stairs to the church and lets a few coins drop. He moves a bit towards the far post to the flagstones, watches some birds on the spine of a roof. He studies a group of women moving down the road in a cluster of gossip and morning chirping. When he turns back towards the church again, the child and the coins are gone. He returns to his post. 

Once the morning starts to get underway, however, Porthos sighs and rises up the stairs, opening the door to the church to fetch Aramis. Thankfully, perhaps mercifully, Aramis is sitting on one of the last pews – staring up at the crucifix with a blank, lonely look in his eyes. He’s distant again, and God only knows what he’s thinking about. Porthos can’t blame him for that. He sits down beside him, but Aramis doesn’t look away from the Christ above the pulpit. 

“Porthos,” Aramis says, finally, as both acknowledgement and command. Porthos nods his head. Aramis studies the crucifix with that same dead, lonely look to his eyes. “Am I wrong to wonder _why_? Am I wrong to want to know?” 

Porthos isn’t sure what to say to that. He fumbles for a moment, and then crosses himself when Aramis does. Aramis’ hand shakes as he does the movement.

He settles his hands in his lap, clasped together. He looks at Porthos. “Mine is a God of love and mercy. Is this what I’m meant to think, when all my friends are dead and gone to me?” 

Porthos looks at him, doesn’t know what to say, wishes he knew what to say. He bites his lip once before he aborts the gesture, finding it too vulnerable – and he can’t be vulnerable, not when Aramis is looking at him so helplessly, so tired, so uncertain. He’s used to confidence, unwavering, ridiculous confidence. Aramis is meant to be confident, not looking at him like he is his own chance at salvation.

“I don’t know,” Porthos says, because it’s the truth. He tries to find words that will soothe, words that will help Aramis – and comes up with nothing. He is not one who understands the word of God, Catholic by proxy more than anything else. He remembers holding his mother’s hand as she slipped into her last sleep, remembers her whispering out a stumbling block of prayers in Latin, in French, in a language he didn’t understand. 

It’s fucked up, is what it is. But he knows better than to say that. 

Aramis smiles, that same brittle thing that makes Porthos want to look away. He doesn’t. 

But Aramis looks back at the pulpit. “… How did everyone take the news?” 

Porthos thinks the garrison must be swarming with the news by now, gossip and truth alike. Part of him is glad to be in this empty church with Aramis, even if he still feels devastatingly out of place, _not belonging._ At least here, Aramis can be protected. At least here, there is no one to stare at him or judge him. 

“As you’d expect,” he settles on, hedges into the words carefully. “No one was expecting it.”

Aramis’ face twists, and he nods. “No. I suppose not.” He looks up at the Christ again. “Who would?” 

They sit in silence for a long moment – and Porthos reaches out, touching his arm. Aramis shakes his head, turns towards him, somewhat desperate in the look he gives him, his hands sliding up Porthos arms to hold against his shoulders. He studies Porthos’ face for a moment, then at the pendant hanging around his neck. Porthos dips his chin a little when Aramis reaches out as if to touch it – and then seems to remember himself and snatches his hand back. 

He recoils entirely from Porthos, seems to curl into himself. He ducks his head, presses his hands to his face, and sighs out long and low. “Did you want to hear about what happened?” 

Porthos doesn’t insult him by dismissing it outright but rather thinks over the question. The short answer is yes, he wants to know – but not for the reasons Aramis thinks. The true answer is, “You’ve been through enough. That isn’t why I’m here.” 

Aramis seems to relax, breathing out, wraps his arms around himself. Porthos removes his cloak and drops it down over his shoulders. Aramis touches at it once, surprised, and then just wraps it up around himself and rubs at his arms, sighing out. He looks so incredibly small in that moment. 

“I don’t remember a lot,” he admits. “The captain kept asking questions and I – I don’t really remember much at all. There were shouts. Screams. Gunfire. I was in the thick of it and then I was shot – and then Marsac dragged me away. I remember him in the forest. I remember him…”

Here he trails off, brow furrowing. Porthos reaches out, his touch tentative, and touches the center of his back. Aramis breathes out, seems to sink into the touch and then away again. His expression closes up, eyes looking strangely lost again, bewildered, betrayed. Because, Porthos can think begrudgingly, Marsac was a good soldier – and then he deserted. Because he was Aramis’ best friend and now he’s gone. Aramis looks horribly young in that moment, exposed and doubtful. 

Aramis stares at the pulpit and not at Porthos now. Quiet, almost quiet enough that had they been anywhere else but inside a church, Porthos wouldn’t have heard it – Aramis asks, “Why would he leave me?” 

His voice is so quiet and a heavy sort of realization thuds down into Porthos. He understands, then. 

“He’s – you’re…” Porthos swallows down his own anger, but it colors his voice. “That b—”

“Please don’t,” Aramis says, tired but firm. 

Porthos says nothing more. And Aramis says nothing more after that. They sit in silence on that last pew. 

Finally, as the day wears on and more people enter the church for their prayer or their confession, Porthos touches Aramis’ elbow and says, “I should get you back to your room.” 

Aramis goes without protest. 

 

-

 

Aramis looks around his room with a quiet kind of reservation. Yes, he’d once dwelled here and yet it feels so long ago now – years and years that he’s been gone. Porthos hovers in the doorway and Aramis turns his head a little to look at him over his shoulder. 

Porthos steps forward, reading something in Aramis’ eyes, and removes the cloak for him. He turns and shuts the door. Aramis watches, silent, as Porthos walks around Aramis’ quarters, shuts the window and throws back the blankets from his small bed. It’s chilly in the room, the window having been left ajar for the time he was gone and the air still winter-thick despite the onset of spring. 

Aramis’ thoughts are miles away, though – to a snow-covered forest, to the gunshots and the shouts and the cries of pain and mercy. He remembers Marsac staring at him and then turning away, ripping off his uniform and stumbling off into the woods, _leaving him there._

Aramis’ breath stutters out of him and Porthos is there within a moment. His hands touch his shoulders, he leans down so he can catch Aramis’ eyes, draw him back into the room and away from the forest. 

“Why would he leave me?” Aramis asks again as he had in the church, because all he wants is the answer, all he needs is the answer and he knows that Porthos can’t give it to him and yet he _needs it._ His hands shake and he touches at Porthos’ chest, pushes him back gently. Porthos, for all his bulk and all his strength, goes without protest – bows down to Aramis’ will and moves as easily as one would push away a sheet hanging in the wind. 

“I don’t know,” Porthos says again, which is at once mercy and cruelty. 

Aramis’ hands shake. “I couldn’t – I could hardly stand up. I had to _walk_ to the nearest village. Stumble, more like. I had to… I—”

Porthos steps to him again, his movements slow and measured – purposefully gentle, as if he would shatter the world around him if he moved too quickly. In reality, Aramis realizes, it is because he is giving Aramis the chance to shy away before Porthos reaches out and grips his elbow gently and leads him to his bed. But he doesn’t – Aramis just lets him do as he wishes. Aramis sits down, sprawls out, stares up at the ceiling and sees nothing but an endless list of questions. 

Porthos turns away and collects wine from the table, fills a cup, and gives it to Aramis. His hand is shaking still, but he takes it from Porthos and downs it. He can’t even feel the buzz of the alcohol – he can’t even taste it. His mouth is dry. 

“I had to leave them all like that. I couldn’t bury them. I couldn’t do anything. I – ” he swallows down, thick and measured. “How could he leave me like that?” 

Porthos is looking at him now – and God, he always looks at him with too much understanding. He feels too exposed even with that, and he knows that Porthos must have guessed by now. 

He remembers first meeting Marsac, a small smile thrown Aramis’ way as Aramis watched him offer a rose to a merchant girl just outside the garrison. He remembers waking up to Marsac sprawled out in his bed, taking up the bulk of the space and hogging all the blankets, mouth slightly open and drooling. He remembers Marsac laughing, teasing, joking, elbowing him with that dry, salted wit of his. He remembers feeling that there was no one else who understood him as Marsac did. 

And then Marsac just left him there. 

“I don’t – I didn’t understand why I was alive and they all—” he chokes up, struggles around the words.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Porthos says, and his voice is quiet, sympathetic, _too knowing._ Aramis looks up at him, holds his gaze for half a second before he has to settle for a spot just above Porthos’ shoulder – not able to look at him directly. He’s always prided himself in his ability to hold eye contact to an uncomfortable degree – and now he can’t even bear to see Porthos looking at him. 

“I want to,” he says, stilted, and something flinches behind his face, a muscle tic of memory. His voice is sharp even to his own ears, and wholly without humor. “I couldn’t even understand. I was just walking. And I had to leave to get help but I didn’t want to leave them all like that and—”

He tips his empty cup, fiddles with it, drops it. His hands ache to hold onto something, to do something. Porthos stoops and picks up the cup, sets it back down on the table beside Aramis’ bed. He’s so close, he can feel the heat rolling off of him – and Aramis is so cold. Hasn’t felt warm since the moment he woke up in that forest, alone and soaked in blood. 

“How could – how could he leave—” Aramis whispers out, broken, and that’s just what it keeps coming back to. Marsac, gone. Marsac, who left him alone in the woods with twenty dead musketeers. Marsac, who _left him._ “If he’s found… they’ll hang him, won’t they?” 

Porthos says nothing, but there’s a steely kind of acceptance to the silence. The answer is yes. Marsac will be labeled a deserter, a traitor. He’ll be hanged. Aramis will never see Marsac again, and if he does it will only be to watch him die a traitor’s death. He wants, quite suddenly, to cry – but there’s nothing left inside of him that can let him do that. 

Everyone – oh, everyone always ends up leaving. 

He goes very quiet after that, not feeling the strength to speak or to really think. Porthos hovers for a moment and then reaches out. “I should change those bandages—”

Aramis jerks his head away, suddenly frightened, suddenly breathing too harshly and he touches at the bandages and ducks his head. “Wait,” he whispers. “Wait—”

Porthos steps back and away from him, so quickly and so silently that it’s almost like he didn’t move at all. How amazing it is, that someone so large, someone who takes up so much space, can move so quietly, can go so unnoticed by so many. How amazing and how cruel. 

“I’m fine,” he says after a moment, because he needs to reassure, needs to dismiss – and yet the idea of Porthos leaving, of being utterly _alone_ with his thoughts, utterly alone like he was back in the forest—

He breathes out shakily. He looks up at the ceiling, contemplates the dark patches where the sunlight doesn’t touch. It’s the middle of the day, Porthos should be on duty, but he’s so exhausted and he can’t imagine Porthos leaving now. He thinks of Marsac – who left, who’s gone, who’ll hang if he ever comes back—

Who left him like that—

He swallows down a betraying sound of agony and instead just nods, reaches up and undoes the bandage himself. “Come here,” he tells Porthos. “If you must.”

Porthos is at his side again, like a shadow, like a whisper of breath, and his fingers are large and blocky and always so, so terrible at reloading his pistol, at cleaning it, can hardly do any menial task because his hands are so large and so encompassing – but with his fingers in his hair, working around the bandage, there is something painfully gentle about the way he does it. This is not the first time Porthos has worked on a head wound, Aramis figures, although he cannot recall Porthos being in any scuffle recently. Perhaps the infantry. Perhaps wherever he came from before then. 

He closes his eyes. The bandage falls away and Porthos’ fingers touch at his scalp as he parts away the hair from the wound at his temple. It’s painful, it throbs, but it’s more a dull, aching pain than a sharp one – one that he’ll be aware of, one that he knows is there. A reminder, bitter and determined, that he is alone now. 

Porthos’ touch is kind. Another little thing that he’s learned about Porthos – how devastatingly gentle he can be, when he lets himself. 

“It feels lighter,” Aramis says, after a lengthy silence, after he feels Porthos card through his hair once and the movement is much shorter and choppier than he expects. “They had to cut it to get at the wound properly, to stitch it.” 

Porthos is checking those stitches now. He doesn’t touch the injury, but he examines it, and Aramis can feel the ghost of Porthos’ breath against his cheek. Aramis closes his eyes again, doesn’t remember when he opened them. His lips part and he breathes out, low and shaky to match Porthos’ breath. 

“Have you seen it yet?” Porthos asks.

It occurs to Aramis that he hasn’t looked in a mirror in days, has no idea what he must look like now. He knows what he’ll expect – dark eyes, darker shadows beneath them, broken and beaten and with unevenly cut hair. 

“I’m sure I’ll be properly mournful of my bad looks, once…” but the joke dies in his throat, unable to coalesce into something half-hearted. 

“It isn’t bad,” Porthos says, and Aramis almost thinks it is a platitude before he reminds himself that Porthos has never been one for such things. Porthos adds, after a moment, “You can see your face better.”

“And what I sight I must be,” Aramis sighs, miserable, can’t even appreciate being complimented by Porthos.

“You need a bit of a shave,” Porthos agrees, and Aramis doesn’t know if it is a joke or fact. Perhaps both. He isn’t in the mood to laugh, but he can appreciate the effort, can appreciate that he must look like Hell – look like someone who came back from Hell. 

How funny, that Hell should be so cold and covered in snow rather than hellfire and brimstone. How funny, that Hell is the silence following a slaughter more than the slaughter itself. 

He lowers his eyes, grips the side of his bed, lets Porthos clean the wound with a dab of brandy at the edges of his hair, where the stitched up wound puckers and edges against his scalp. Aramis doesn’t hiss, but his shoulders tense up at the sting of alcohol. 

Once Porthos is finished and wraps him up with new bandages, Aramis sits in quiet contemplation. He looks down, studies his hands in his lap, fidgeting for something to hold to. 

“Do you want more to drink? Porthos asks. 

“No,” Aramis says, faintly. “I should sleep, but – but I’m…”

“Afraid of what you’ll see?” Porthos asks, and again he sounds far too knowing. Aramis glances at him and then away, ashamed to admit it for the truth it is. Porthos sighs out, though, and says, “I’ll stay, if that’s what you want.”

“I don’t want to be alone,” Aramis whispers. “How pathetic of me.” 

“It isn’t,” Porthos says with such force that Aramis almost flinches, too strung-out on everything that’s happened. Porthos must realize, because when he speaks next, his voice is much softer, “I’ll stay. I’m not leaving, okay?”

Aramis breathes out shakily – thinks of Marsac, who is gone to him, who left him even before Aramis could think to beg him to stay—

He lies down, back to Porthos, and nods. “Please.” 

He almost asks why Porthos is doing this, why Porthos is being so kind when before they weren’t even friends—

But he doesn’t have the energy to ask it. Doesn’t have the energy to hear the answer. 

He feels the bed dip as Porthos sits on the edge of it, close to him. Aramis closes his eyes, tries to quell his speeding heart, tries to get warm – he curls into himself, clenches his eyes shut, breathes out slow and steady. 

A hand touches his back, firm and present, and rubs small circles down his spine. It is painfully comforting and Aramis breathes out a stuttered little gasp. 

“This helped,” Porthos says, and his voice is quiet and distant. “When I – someone I used to know would get bad nightmares. This always helped.” 

Aramis nods once but doesn’t speak, doesn’t have the strength to speak. He tries to picture the people Porthos must care about, the way they must have felt when he would touch them like this. When he drops off into an unsteady sleep, it is with the soothing, present touch of Porthos’ hand at his back, guiding him into some measure of peace, however brief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at this [amazing fanart](http://jlsdrawings.tumblr.com/post/119606056834/it-isnt-bad-porthos-says-and-aramis-almost) that [JL](http://jlarinda.tumblr.com/) drew. All the hearts flying out of me. GO LOOK AT IT AND CRY WITH ME.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am here,” Aramis says and hates how thin and wavering his voice sounds even to his own ears, “to officially resign my commission and leave the Musketeers regiment effective immediately.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this story was going to be 7 chapters and the chapters have just been getting longer and longer, and I reorganized my outline notes and realized that, realistically, I should extend the story. So now it's 10 chapters. Hurray?

In the wake of the massacre at Savoy, the regiment mourns, stumbling around through its loss – men ambling around uncertain what they should be doing, finding no pleasure in the work left to be done. There is already whispers of having to fill and swell the ranks again, followed with the gutting, painful realization as to _why_. It never strays too far from anyone’s thoughts – haunting in the dark corners there. There are questions. There are rumors. There are misunderstandings and a large flow of wine and drink that doesn’t aid vice nor virtue. Porthos hears murmurs about Aramis – unsettling questions, disgusting insinuations. Questions of what he had to do to survive, questions of what he did to aid the others – if at all, questions of his supposed cowardice or braver. Questions. Porthos fists his hands but by the time he whips around to defend Aramis’ honor on his behalf, the whispers are gone and the men guiding them are looking away. 

He’s not sure where the rumors stem from, can’t pinpoint the epicenter. They’re light murmurs, questions. There are plenty other murmurs exonerating Aramis, painful sympathy and pity. Porthos remembers this part well. Remembers joining the infantry and hearing the whispers about _him_ , about where he came from, who he was born to, what he had to do to earn his position. He had some willing to turn a blind eye, some willing to believe the best in him – but there were plenty others who thought him no better than the dirt he crawled out of. 

That it could be happening to Aramis now – no man deserves that, least of all one who’s already gutted, one who’s already broken down by his own loss, his own guilt. Aramis isn’t to blame – but making him believe it is another thing entirely. 

But, all the same, there is work to be done. No one finds pleasure in it. 

Porthos doesn’t know what he should be doing. There is something unsettled inside of him. Some quiet need to stay near Aramis – to protect him, to look after him. Aramis hardly needs the protection. Not now, at least. But Porthos thinks he’d like the company. He remembers the way Aramis fell asleep, just barely, only after Porthos’ presence was enough to calm him. 

But then, perhaps Aramis doesn’t want the company at all – perhaps he just wants to be alone. There isn’t much that Porthos can offer him, not much he can do to make this better. He knows, he knows painfully how very little can be done to comfort someone in their loss. And this is far worse, this is soldiers being slaughtered. Far different from someone dying of fever, of touching his hand one last time and—

But, there is work to be done. Porthos is still in charge of mucking out stables, and he likes the horses well enough that the work gets done quickly enough. Complaining about the shit and the smell is enough to take his mind off worrying about Aramis, at least. Helps keep his mind from remembering things not worth remembering. It gives him something to do, a way to hitch his mind away from thoughts of Aramis. He thinks to himself that Aramis hardly needs a keeper – wonders how long it can be before he becomes a hindrance to him and his mourning. Porthos didn’t know the men who died, not really. He can’t imagine he’d provide any true comfort to him. 

Even like this, his thoughts drift back. 

His shovel scrapes down against the floor of the stables, and he continues his work. Sweat prickles at the back of his neck. The fact that he’s worrying so much about Aramis is worrying enough to Porthos. 

It isn’t so strange that Aramis dying should make him realize this all. He cares. That much is clear. Aramis is – well, whatever Aramis is to him. Thinking he died is certainly one way to realize the extent of one’s feelings. He’s always known how much Charon and Flea matter to him – but with Aramis it’s different. He thinks of his smile, thinks of the way he touched his shoulder when inviting him to go drinking. He thinks of his laugh, something he hasn’t heard now for weeks. He thinks of the way he’d fallen onto his back, never cowering even as Porthos beat him black and blue. He remembers Aramis stepping in front of a hit meant for him, remembers Aramis smiling at him with blood in his teeth – like it was simple, like it was natural, to find a means to protect him. Second-nature, like breathing, like writing. Blood in his teeth and his eyes soft as he swept across Porthos, searching for injuries. Laughing when discussing the benefit of scars over broken noses. Laughing. 

He thinks of him now, locked away in his room and curled up into himself. 

Of course it’d be an experience like this that would help him realize Aramis is something more than an annoyance, something more than a begrudging acquaintance who thrills in being overly friendly. Now he thinks about the way Aramis’ eyes clouded over with the thought of Marsac leaving him, sitting there hunched into himself on that last pew. He remembers himself in that moment, that realization of just what Marsac meant to Aramis – and now he thinks of how cold Aramis feels even then, how he’s flinched away from the touch to his hair, how he’s hardly smiled at all. 

A horse ninnies behind him, jarring him from his thoughts. He doesn’t startle, but his shoulders do tense up as he knocks his thoughts loose with a soft, frustrated hiss. He turns towards the horse, setting aside his shovel and reaching for her, smoothing his hand over her flank, his touch slow and gentle. 

 

-

 

Aramis looks at the mirror and hardly sees his reflection at all. He doesn’t recognize the man there. Perhaps at another time, he’d be distressed by the sight set before – his vanity winning out over everything. Now, he just stares back at dark, tired eyes and understands that this is the truest he’s ever been. Sleepless, left behind, and unlucky. A shell, devoid of his conceit and his charm. This is who he is, at the heart of it: nothing. 

His room is cold – there’s nothing he can do to get warm again, really. His hands shake and it makes the mirror jostle as he attempts to adjust it, attempts to move it enough so he isn’t constantly looking back at the remnants of a dead man. Perhaps he died back there in Savoy. Perhaps his body hasn’t gotten to that truth yet, but it was only a matter of time. 

He touches at his hair, flinches away from his own touch when he touches his wound too closely. The bandages are crisp beneath his touch. He closes his eyes and heaves out a shuttering breath. 

He hasn’t left his room in days. It’s easier like this. Easier. Easier not to look, to breathe, to speak – he doesn’t know what he’ll see, when he walks out there again. He feels the coward, and yet this is all he can do. 

There have been visitors, at least. The Captain stopped by to question him some more, in a more official inquiry – eyes soft and sympathetic in moments, knowing what it meant to the both of them to keep dragging this out, how breathless Aramis became trying to recount small details and coming up with nothing but more questions. But even beyond that, more soldiers have visited, checked in on him, delivered some letters from patrons and would-be mistresses that might have once filled him with delight. Now when he closes his eyes he can only see Marsac walking away. 

Every time the door opens, though, he finds himself looking up – quickly, searching, waiting – and finds himself disappointed each time. It’s a ridiculous thought, a ridiculous wish – and yet he can’t stop thinking of it, can’t stop hoping for it. Perhaps, perhaps he’ll catch up. Perhaps he’ll find his way there. He wishes he had his pauldron still, wishes he could give it back to him when he returns. He’s heard it’s been burned in effigy. An example set for betrayers and deserters: undeserving of the rank of musketeer. 

There’s a knock at the door now and when he looks up, he watches Porthos stick his head in. It’s a simple, endearing gesture – it shouldn’t make Aramis’ expression relax, and yet it does. He nods his head in greeting and Porthos sticks the rest of himself in through the doorway, holding a small bowl of what he supposes is meant to be food – although Aramis has struggled this entire week to keep food down. 

“Porthos,” he greets and almost feels warm for a moment. 

“Hey,” Porthos answers, approaching him and offering the bowl of food. “The captain sent this.”

“Of course he did,” Aramis muses, looking down into the bowl, fiddling with it before he obediently starts to eat before Porthos can urge it from him. Each bite is like a lead weight in his throat, choking him. He forces it down and finds no pleasure in the taste, in the texture – and not just because Serge’s cooking is questionable. 

Aramis says little, spends the entire visit trying to force the food down. Each swallow is thick and he feels heavier at the end of it, like he’ll just twist up into himself and fall through the floor. He remembers being in this same room, thrumming with happiness, bright enough he felt he might float away – curling into Marsac’s smile, or floating down the garrison to find Porthos and drag him out for drinks. How long ago that all feels now. 

Porthos stays only for a short while, edging once or twice on his feet, shifting uneasily through the room – unsure where to sit, unsure where to lay his hands. It’s strange, to watch such a large, strong man fiddle his way through a room, gentle as can be – as if afraid the force of his own presence could break the world apart around him. 

He takes Aramis’ bowl once it’s empty, gives him a small, unreadable look as he studies him. Aramis looks away and Porthos sighs out. 

“I’ll see you later,” Porthos says, quiet, and then he’s gone and Aramis feels cold again. 

 

-

 

There is, of course, an official inquiry into the Savoy massacre. Porthos can’t find himself surprised by the outcome – that the leader of the expedition is deemed incompetent even in his death and the entire thing marked as a horrible tragedy and accident. One of the two survivors is taken off active duty as he recovers. The other is damned as a traitor to the crown, sentenced to hang should he ever be caught. 

There are rumors and confusion, mostly having to do with ambassadors and courtly politics that Porthos has never fully understood and never cared to. As a soldier, it hardly matters. What matters is that twenty are dead because of a _mistake_. The mournful silence that permeates the garrison melts away into something more jagged, an unspoken thirst for vengeance and revenge for lost friends. Porthos understands the want for retribution, and the frustration of having no face to put to that need. He knows how hollow and broken that desire becomes. He knows that all too well. 

He also knows about having to push past it, to duck your head down and keep moving. The world, for all its splendor and joy, is an unfair place – and you have to carve out your own spot in order to fit, or be swept away by it all. 

He wonders if Aramis is still upset, alone up in his room, or if it’s melted away to anger. He remembers the look in Aramis’ eyes as he’d changed those bandages, the way he’d quivered apart with just a simple, gentle touch of comfort. He’s seen flashes of anger in Aramis before, but he seems a man who burns down low – slow and nurturing rather than destructive. Hands clasped in his lap, looking up at a pulpit, eyes far away and distant and remembering a man who walked away from him – Porthos doesn’t know what Aramis’ anger would look like. He can’t quite picture it, around the mildness and the mournfulness. 

Aramis is well-liked, but there are harder looks directed his way whenever he wanders into the garrison courtyard, moving like a ghost. It is a silent, broken understanding that passes between Aramis and the other musketeers: so many friends died and yet Aramis still lives. A guilt. A pain. A resentment. Porthos wants to throw them all from the walls of the Bastille for the looks they direct towards Aramis – but Aramis makes no eye contact, hardly understands he’s being looked at. Aramis does not react to it, does not respond – if anything, he accepts the hatred festering in what was once friendship. Porthos can see it in the way his shoulders stiffen up but then steady as he makes his way towards the Captain’s office, or down the steps back towards his quarters. But then, there is nothing anyone else can say or do that Aramis would not have directed at himself tenfold. 

Porthos can understand that, too. Better than most, perhaps. That serrated resentment at yourself for surviving when someone important is dead and gone. 

No. He understands that. 

Porthos knows it is not the same situation, knows that another man’s pain can never be the same. Knows that what Aramis feels is not the same as what a young child felt – but he knows, at least, the shadow of that feeling. He knows, at least, the dragging, painful thoughts of _why did I survive_ as it drags you ever further down into the center of your gut, decaying. He knows that far too well to turn away from him. He knows that far too well not to know exactly what it is doing to Aramis. 

He turns, searching for Serge and some food to bring to Aramis. Follows after Aramis, down the dark hallway leading to his quarters. 

 

-

 

It rains the day the men are buried. The day starts cold and the sun never parts past the clouds, thick and damp and unrelenting. It suits the general mood of the regiment, hanging over the musketeers as a pall.

The bodies each have their own simple coffin branded with the fleur-de-lis and the regiment carries them through the streets to the graveyard, each man tasked with carrying one coffin, each man laying a hand upon the wooden planks, the last vestige of their departed friends. Porthos lingers in the back, feels again that he is apart from this all – didn’t know the men who died, not really, and feels disingenuous in his grief all the same. He carries one of the last of the bodies, his arms strong enough to hold it up on his shoulder with the others carrying the weight behind him. This, at least, is something he can do. Be the beast of burden. 

The graveyard’s grass turns to mud beneath so many feet and so many graves. Blue capes dampen beneath the rain but move with the slightest shift of feet, the clasping of hands together, solemn. 

Porthos sees Aramis standing near the front of the group, as all assemble, alone beside the captain. His head is bowed, hat pressed to his chest, and the wind rustles at his cape even as the rain soaks him to the bone. The captain beside him seems decades older after all of this, grey-faced and pained. There are still so many questions and too many rumors for everyone – it’s no wonder Treville should look so haggard. 

He can’t see Aramis well. Treville turns his head to address the musketeers all in their lines and so far away Porthos can barely hear the eulogy, even especially once Treville turns back towards the graves. Aramis never moves. He never takes his eyes away from the wooden crosses. 

Porthos watches them both, watches as one by one twenty graves are filled and marked. Watches as one by one, the other musketeers return to their garrison after paying their respects. Watches as both Treville and Aramis stand there in the rain, saying goodbye to their men. 

Treville reaches out and touches Aramis’ shoulder and Aramis flinches once and then leans into the touch, his head still bowed. He doesn’t seem to be breathing. He doesn’t seem to be crying, either. 

Porthos leaves, feeling far too useless and far too distant to ever offer the right sympathy to either.

 

-

 

It’s funny that it should have been the feeling of rain in his hair, dragging down his cheeks, that could give him that sudden moment of clarity. It feels so simple now. So obvious. 

It’s the first time in weeks that Aramis feels sure of himself, sure of his footing – and he dresses down into his clothes and pulls on his cloak, and heads towards the door. He leaves his pauldron behind on his table. He closes the door behind him and moves with sure footing down the narrow hallways that will lead out to the garrison’s courtyard and to the captain’s office. 

It’s the surest he’s felt in so long. He can drag along like this, nothing more than a walking corpse, or he can make good on the promise he made so long ago. In the end, perhaps he was not made for this life. In the end, this was not meant for him. 

He can’t feel happy about it, not really, but he can be resigned to the fact that it must be so. It is not the first time in his life that he has had to resign himself to something. He survived before. He will survive again. 

Perhaps that’s the problem. 

He steps out into the courtyard, heaves in a deep, steadying breath. He hides his hands beneath his cloak. It won’t do for the captain to see him shaking, to perceive any kind of insecurity or uncertainty. He has to be sure of this. He _is_ sure of this. 

“You should be in bed.” The voice comes out suddenly and Aramis hates that he startles, hates that his heart leaps into his throat and punches through him that sense of panic, that sense of being under attack. 

“Jesus,” Aramis hisses, and then flushes with shame and murmurs a quiet apology to God. “Porthos!” 

Porthos blinks once. “Sorry.” 

It’s late in the evening, late enough that most would have long since retired for the evening or out to the taverns – and yet here Porthos stands, sword in hand and stray dummy set up to test his skills. Aramis blinks once, surprised. Porthos has a hand pressed to the dummy to keep it from shuddering at the force of the last hit he laid upon it. His hand is loose around the sword, ,his thumb pressed along the hilt. There’s sweat on his brow, his hand callused from where he’s been holding the sword for too long. What a paramour he is. He is so sturdy and so sure. Aramis envies his surety, envies his stability.

“No, it’s –” Aramis forces himself to breathe. “No, all is well. Forgive me – you only startled me.” 

Porthos’ eyes are too gentle, too apologetic – like he _knows_ how hard Aramis’ heart is hammering. It does pass, though – once he realizes it’s Porthos. He is safe. Porthos will do him no harm. 

“Practicing so late, Porthos?” Aramis asks, his voice a forced lightness now. He tilts his head towards the dummy, bleeding straw from its shoulder. 

Porthos shrugs one shoulder, wipes the back of his hand over his brow and the tendons to his wrist flex, the thick cut of his jaw clenches as he swallows down – recognizes that Aramis is diverting, because Porthos is too damn stubborn and too damn observant. 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, voice cautious as he studies Aramis’ face, searching for something. He tilts his head, and his hair catches the moonlight hanging low in the sky, his eyes are dark and low as they stare at him. “You alright?” 

There is a tremor to Aramis’ limbs, even now, and it betrays the extent of his injuries. He has a slight limp, his arm is sore and tied up, and his head aches with the force of the musketball wound even now. He is used to the throbbing, stitching pain of a healing wound. This thrums at the inside of his skull every morning, every day. Every movement is a struggle. Every breath a torture. 

“I’m fine,” he lies, and knows that Porthos will not accept the dismissal. Porthos, for all his virtues, is incredibly immovable when he wishes to be. Aramis walks towards the stairs that will lead to Treville’s office, meaning to sidestep around Porthos and be done with it. 

Porthos steps forward easily, though – of course he does. He follows behind Aramis’ limp and walks past him easily, blocks the way before Aramis can even reach the hand railing. He places a steadying hand to the railing, arm acting as barrier. The wind brushes at his shirtsleeves. It pushes across his chest lightly, a flimsy material – and Lord in Heaven, how is he not freezing – and Aramis can see a sliver of his chest, that pendant hanging there of a saint Aramis hasn’t quite managed to identify yet. His coat is flung over the table where they used to sit and have their meals together. Aramis hobbles closer regardless, undeterred. He, too, can be stubborn when he wishes it – and this is important. Possibly the most important thing he’ll do in his entirely worthless life. 

“Aramis,” Porthos says and truthfully Aramis can only think of a few times in which Porthos has used his name, and he hates the betraying shudder that racks down his spine at the sound of it. Porthos doesn’t notice it, staring him down as he says, “You’re under strict orders to rest.” 

“I will rest myself into an early grave,” Aramis protests with an easy shrug that isn’t quite as easy as he’d intended when he flinches at the movement. Porthos’ eyebrows shoot up but Aramis continues, determined, “I would die of boredom, Porthos.” 

He tries the humor, the lightness – and instead the lackadaisical mention of death just sends him into a moody kind of silence. One that Porthos, of course, picks up on because how could he not? It is Aramis’ own doing. He should not be so heartless to himself, to the memories of lost friends.

“You should be sleeping,” Porthos says, and actually sounds worried. It’s sweet of him to think that Aramis has slept at all since his return. 

He must look tired – he can feel it deep in his bones. And for good reason. He hasn’t slept since the night Porthos stayed sitting there on his bed, hand on the center of his back. Aramis can feel it still – like a brand, pressed to the dip of his spine. There is comfort there. That’s what it’d been – that’s all it could have been. 

He’d felt comforted then, if only for a moment, even if he knew he did not deserve any sort of comfort or sympathy. And since then, sleep has eluded him. He knows he must look terrible. He saw his reflection and he looks like he’s walked straight out of Hell and onto the streets of Paris with hardly a breath passing between the two. 

The wound at his temple is only just starting to heal. It is an angry red slash he can hide beneath the short slaps of his hair. It’s still on display, though – a reminder to all in the garrison that he is still alive and the others are dead. A reminder of Savoy. He thinks of the twenty graves and his throat closes up. 

He forces himself to breathe, slumping beneath the exhale – turning small and worthless. 

He was never as good at hiding his emotions as he’d hoped, or perhaps Porthos is just that observant, because he frowns deeply and actually looks angry – angry enough that Aramis almost flinches away, fearing an explosion of noise and shouts. He closes his eyes and makes himself breathe—

It is Porthos. He has no reason to be afraid. 

“What do you need?” Porthos asks, rather than asking why he’s here, what he wants – no, he’s asking what he needs. _Needs._

Aramis needs to sleep. He needs to get warm. He needs to eat and to breathe and to shuffle through his day like nothing has happened and he is alive. He needs to remember that.

He needs to be back in Savoy, where he belongs. He needs to _sleep._

Aramis licks dry lips, shifts a little so he can grasp the railing to the stairs for that support. Porthos doesn’t move from where he’s blocking the way to get to Treville. Aramis would be amused if it didn’t also annoy him – what a determined man Porthos is. He’ll be a good soldier, a strong soldier. He’ll certainly be stronger than Aramis ever was. He wonders if Porthos will think of him at all, when he’s gone. He wonders if he’d think on him kindly. 

“You are, as always, a dauntless gentleman, Porthos,” he says, tries to summon up some of the cheer he can remember feeling once. He only sounds dry and brittle as a result. “Please move aside so that I may speak with our captain.” 

“I asked you a question,” Porthos says in turn – slow and steady, unmoving. What a obstinate, brilliant man Porthos is. 

“What I need,” Aramis sighs out, world-weary and bone-tired, “is for you to move so I can speak with the captain.”

“But why?” Porthos asks. There’s no denying the worry in his voice now – even if it weren’t written all over his face. “You know you’re meant to be resting. You should be lying down. You should be sleeping.” 

“Porthos,” Aramis says, and his jaw sets a little more firmly. He attempts to duck beneath Porthos but with just the smallest shift of the sword in his hand, he blocks the way there as well. He sighs out and says again, “ _Porthos._ ”

“You should be resting,” Porthos says again.

“I have not slept in days,” Aramis mutters out. 

“All the more reason,” Porthos states, calm as ever. His brow is slanting, though – he looks ever the concerned housewife, a schoolboy eager to please his tutor. He looks as if he cares. What a strange thought. 

He reaches out as if to touch Aramis, to check the wound at his temple – and aborts the movement at the last moment, remembering the way Aramis flinched at the touch before. Aramis mourns that – wishes he would touch his hair, just once, some kind of comfort he can call upon in an attempt to sleep. A hand in his hair, a hand on his back. 

“I _can’t_.” Aramis looks up at him, desperate to have him understand. He almost reaches out to touch him – but it is too much. Porthos is too much. Aramis is nothing. He drops his hand away, curls into himself. “This is important,” Aramis says. “Please.” 

Porthos stares at him, clearly wants to protest, clearly wants to pick Aramis up himself and carry him back to his bed – as if Aramis might sleep this time. But there are only demons and regrets waiting for him when he closes his eyes, and he is weak and torn apart and he is slowly, slowly going mad and he _must_ speak with the captain. 

“ _Please,_ ” Aramis whispers, begs, his voice cracking. 

Porthos looks like he’s been slapped. Aramis breathes out once as Porthos sheaths his sword and then steps to him, slings his arm around his waist. “Come on,” he says, relenting. Aramis almost sags with his relief. “I’ll take you there.” 

Porthos is a good man, Aramis thinks distantly. He closes his eyes as he leads him up the stairs. It’s brief, but once they’re shut he sees Marsac stumbling away. He opens his eyes again. 

Just the walk up the stairs is enough to make Aramis want to catch his breath, and he leans against Porthos far more heavily than he wishes he had to. Porthos lifts a large hand and knocks twice on the captain’s door and waits there, Aramis slumped against him and eyes resolutely open but focused down on their boots. Porthos has one boot pulled up higher than the other, the second slumped down with his movements. There’s a scuff on one of them. Aramis isn’t sure why he finds the detail so endearing. 

When the captain opens his door and sees who awaits him, he nods to Porthos and steps back to make room for Aramis. Aramis breathes out and looks up at Porthos – holds his gaze. 

Porthos watches him with a shockingly gentle look. Seeing it now, Aramis can’t help but mourn all the days spent with Porthos’ brow furrowed. He is infinitely more handsome like this – even if Aramis doesn’t deserve his sympathy. He looks away. 

“You should rest,” he tells Porthos, maybe once upon a time that could have been a joke, and shuts the door behind him before Porthos can respond. 

The captain leads him into the room, settles against his desk and gives Aramis a critical look – clearly thinking that Aramis should be resting, as well. The captain and Porthos are rather similar, Aramis can’t help but think. If he deserved their concern, he’d be grateful for it all – he’d feel safe, knowing they were both looking out for him. But he does not deserve it.

He closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath, breathes out. He sees Marsac again. He sees him, smiling a little – smiling at Aramis, as he often did, like everything was all a large joke and only the two of them knew the punch-line. He and Marsac joined the musketeers when it first formed. Both of them learned together, both of them became quick friends – and Marsac was – _is_ a damn fine musketeer. They’d bonded within moments. They were a good team, Aramis thinks. He can remember that they were. He can remember the soft look Marsac would give him when no one else was looking. He can also remember the darker looks he got sometimes, in his quiet moments, when he was mulling over his wine or disapproving of Aramis. Aramis even loved those looks, because it meant that Marsac was thinking of him. 

It feels so long ago now. 

Aramis opens his eyes. He can’t keep them still for long – not for the memories, and not for letting himself be so off-guard. His eyes cast about listlessly, even in the relative safety of the captain’s office. He feels smaller without Marsac by his side. He feels lost. 

His eyes track back and forth over the shadows as the captain lights a few more candles. The ambush happened while they all slept. He doesn’t take to darkness as kindly as he once did – the night was always a safe haven for him, always gentle and embracing. Now it just smells of shadows and danger. He loves – loved danger. Now he isn’t so sure. 

He sits down in the light of the candles, their little flames flickering as he clasps his hands tightly together in his lap. “Captain. I’d like to speak with you, if I may.”

“I’d thought as much, given your arrival,” the captain says with the smallest hint of sarcasm, and yet does not seem eager to sit down and start the conversation – partly because, Aramis can guess, the captain knows what is coming. 

“In that case—”

“Have you slept?” the captain interrupts. “Are you eating?” 

Aramis stares at him, somewhat bewildered, and somewhat frustrated that his attempts at speech are interrupted. He shakes his head. 

“Have you been visiting the physician as I asked?” the captain continues. 

Aramis sighs out. 

“Tomorrow, then. You’ll do that. After you’ve rested,” the captain says and Aramis ducks his head, feeling like a scolded child. Treville lights a few more candles and then halts somewhere off to Aramis’ left. He seems agitated, or guilty, but then Aramis can only guess how the captain must feel, to have lost twenty men – twenty-two men, in a way – without any real answers. 

“Captain,” Aramis says, helplessly. 

“Are you taking care of yourself?” Treville asks, in the way that means he knows the answer. The answer is obvious, anyway. Aramis’ lips twist up. 

Aramis closes his eyes once again, unsure of what else to do. “They all look at me differently. Strangely.” 

_Even you,_ he doesn’t say. 

He thinks of the way Porthos looked, standing outside Treville’s door – expression oddly gentled, but hesitant. He thinks of the way he looked as he walked into the church that first day, sat down beside him. He’d wanted answers so desperately then. Still wants them. 

Porthos looked so beautiful in the early morning sunlight, walking down the steps from the church – far too good for someone like Aramis. 

The captain’s answer is gentled, if edged with the rigidity of a man who has been a soldier almost his entire life: “They believed you dead. The first reports that came back said none survived.” 

This is at once a surprise and not a surprise. It explains some of the looks he’s gotten. He thinks of the way the other musketeers look at him when they think he cannot see.

“And yet here I am,” Aramis says, wan. “Back from the dead.” 

He thinks of Porthos’ face when he’d arrived back into the garrison, nearly fell from his horse. He remembers that look in his eyes as he’d sought out Aramis’ gaze – the only one to actually try to look at him and meet his eyes. The only one to look at him as if he was a man and not already a ghost. It was Aramis who had to look away, it was Aramis who heard Porthos say his name like a prayer, who hovered behind him like some kind of guardian. 

Ah. Porthos had believed him dead – saw him not as a ghost but a man reborn. What a stubborn, wonderful man Porthos is. 

He thinks of the moment the scouts found him wandering just beyond the forest, tottering towards the village – injured and confused. He remembers apologizing, unsure just what he was apologizing for. He remembers trying to go back to the forest, to get the bodies of his fallen friends, to find Marsac’s pauldron so he could hold onto it until Marsac returned for it. He remembers his fellow musketeers and their rage, their anger, their spitting fury at the thought of Marsac _coming back._

God. But Marsac left him.

He remembers Marsac as a good man and a good soldier. They will all remember him as a traitor. If they remember him at all. 

“I am here,” Aramis says and hates how thin and wavering his voice sounds even to his own ears, “to officially resign my commission and leave the Musketeers regiment effective immediately.” 

It feels wrong to say it. Wrong in every shape and form – and yet Aramis does not know what else to do, what else to say. He sat on the words for days and yet it is the only solution he can find. He is no longer a soldier. He is no longer a man. 

He is a wraith, wasting away into skin and bones, blood and snow. There is nothing left of him but this. There is nothing left for him. His hands shake, his breath is rigid, and his head is always throbbing. He cannot be as he was. He will never be as he was again. 

And God. Marsac left him there. 

“Your request is denied,” Treville says – just as Aramis knew he would. 

Aramis ducks his head. “It wasn’t a request, Sir.” His hands are shaking and he clenches them tight in his lap until his knuckles burn white. “I’m sorry.”

“You have no reason to apologize,” Treville says, with a sudden force that strikes too deep into Aramis. He sounds wretched, like he is wounded – like he is the one to give that killing blow. “You _will not_ apologize. And you will not leave.” 

“I must,” Aramis hisses out. The anger feels foreign but he embraces it – at least it is something to feel.

“You are a good soldier,” Treville says and he sounds distant now, forcefully so. Aramis glances up, sees that Treville is staring into the candlelight and his face twisted up into something ugly and miserable, his hands fisted against the table. “This is where you belong. You won’t leave. I won’t allow it so do not ask it again.” 

Aramis closes his eyes – sees Marsac still but banishes his ghost as best he can – because the captain speaks the truth. He knows he does. He knows it deep down just as he knew it the first moment he ever walked into the garrison, the first moment he ever strapped on his pauldron and worked day after day to make the leather supple to his touch, to form to his shoulder alone. The captain is right. The regiment is his home. It will always be his home, perhaps. There is nothing outside those walls that he can go to and find solace – there is nothing out there but the ghost of a child he lost and a woman he loved, gone to him forever. There is nothing out there but a man who walked away, just as everyone else did. And yet he cannot belong, cannot belong after all he’s done and all he’s failed to do. 

He can’t protect anyone. Much less himself. 

“Thank you,” he says, because he does not know what to say. “But—”

“You are wounded and you will remain on leave. You will return when I deem you fit to serve the crown,” Treville interrupts, sharp and affirming, and Aramis cannot speak up against his captain. Not like this. “All wounds heal in time, Aramis.” 

“Perhaps.” He bites back some kind of metaphor about scars, about pained phantom wounds. “Unless you die,” Aramis says with a touch of sardonic humor that would have made Marsac roll his eyes. It only makes Treville scowl. He looks ten years older in just that one expression. 

“You did not,” Treville says with a sharp fierceness as he rounds on Aramis. “You are alive.” 

“For now,” says Aramis, light agreement weighed down with something unspoken. 

The captain sucks in a sharp breath and paces away from the desk. He moves closer to Aramis, who struggles to his feet so that he might meet the captain’s gaze. It is a fight to do so, but he does it all the same. He unravels himself from the safety of his seat and straightens his spine. The captain approaches him and Aramis doesn’t let himself slink away. He tips his chin up in some semblance of confidence. 

The captain looks just as guilty as he, ashen and grim. He has not slept either, it seems. “You blame yourself for surviving,” the captain says, fierce. “But you are not the only one who feels the guilt.” 

Aramis pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment. He looks back and forth – between his captain and between the walls that seem to close in around him. Treville does not _understand._ He tries to sound collected. He tries to sound as if he is not falling apart, as if he is not broken, as if he is something beyond a gray and filmy haze of regret and _nothing_ / 

Aramis swallows down, fights against the bile in his throat, fights against the restricting, possessive anger. This is _his_ guilt, not the captain’s. “I do not wish to be a living reminder. I do not wish to be resented by you all.” 

“You aren’t,” the captain says and Aramis makes a soft, wounded sound. 

“I lived. And they all died.” His voice is wooden. It’s the absolute cruelest part of him – that he can feel so little in these moments. That so many of his brothers and friends are silenced forever, that they feel no benefit of joy or anger. They feel nothing. They are already rotting away, only bodies in the ground. Alive only in his thoughts. The absolute cruelest, that Aramis should be alive and yet feel nothing at all. There is so much they would want to feel. They would rather be alive, if they could feel at all. And then there is him, alive but might as well be dead. 

Treville heaves a long sigh, expression closing off. “If you resign, where will you go?” 

Aramis closes his eyes against the sting of tears. His voice is flat when he says, “The church, I suppose. My father had high hopes that I would be an abbé once. Perhaps I’ll become a monk. Perhaps now I can do as he wished.” 

He opens his eyes again and blinks a few times. He breathes in. Then breathes out. His breath is a shallow, rasping little bird trapped inside of him. He thinks the captain wants to protest more, he can see it in his face. Aramis lowers his eyes down, stares into the candles and their flickering flames. His hands shake. 

“If you truly wish to resign your commission,” Treville says, and his voice is tight. “You will wait until you are fully recovered to _my_ standards. And if you still feel this way, we will discuss it then. But not a moment sooner.” 

Aramis makes a sound like he’s been punched and he ducks his head, twists his wrists up in an attempt to clench his hands together, in a vain attempt to get them to stop shaking. He wonders if it’s possible to shake apart at the seams just from lack of will. 

“Won’t you let me go?” he asks, miserable. 

“If you leave now, it will be a dishonorable discharge,” Treville says, almost snaps out. “You will wait for the proper dismissal should it truly have to come. But it will be on my terms, Aramis. Not yours.” 

“Thank you, Captain,” Aramis says, his voice heated with his frustrations. 

Everything he feels, so much more that he doesn’t feel – it’s ripping him apart slowly. He is a wounded, cornered animal. He is a staggering, tilting shell of a man. The anger he feels now is the most he’s felt in days – and he is still numb, he is still so cold. He is nothing more than this. 

He is nothing.

“You’re dismissed, Aramis. Go sleep.” 

Aramis turns his head and walks away as dignified as he can, frazzled and unsteadied. He opens the door and steps out onto the balcony. He lurches suddenly, plants his hands on the railing and nearly tips over for his troubles. His breathing is a stuttering, shattering little mess. He blinks back against the hot press of tears at the back of his eyes. No tears come – no tears have come even now – but there is the dizzying threat of them. 

Porthos is at the end of the gangway – making his way over towards him now that he sees Aramis struggle. His footsteps fall heavy and present. Aramis flushes with his shame. 

“Thought you might want help down the stairs,” Porthos says as explanation and his expression alone is enough to make Aramis feel gut-punched again. 

Aramis wonders if he heard anything or if he’d stayed near the stairs the entire course of the conversation. He breathes in and then breathes out as steadily as he can manage and lets Porthos take his elbow. He curls into himself a little, hunches over. 

When he glances up again, Porthos is leaning in closer to him, hands on him steady and supportive. Aramis does not deserve this. 

Porthos does not deserved to be weighed down with this, either. 

“Alright,” he whispers, somewhat unnecessarily. He lets Porthos lead him down the stairs. 

 

-

 

It’s a cold morning the next day when he steps out into the garrison, in search of food. He wavers a little, seeing a collection of musketeers – he hasn’t seen this many standing together since the funeral. He hesitates, but takes in a steadying breath and moves forward. 

“Good morning,” he greets Porthos when he spots him in a small crowd of other musketeers – and there’s a quiet, contemplative part of him that’s glad that Porthos seems to be making friends, that he seems to be alright despite it all. He’ll be alright. 

“Morning,” Porthos greets, and there’s a small smile for him – how strange to see it when before he would have given anything to see him smile. The musketeer beside Porthos, Dupont, nods a bit in greeting to Aramis and answers the greeting. The two other musketeers merely stare at him, stone-faced. 

Aramis’ eyes flicker away, unable to look at any of them except for Porthos. Porthos holds his gaze, his expression gentling after a moment, the smile fading. “Hey,” he tells Aramis. “You need anything? Want me to get you food?” 

A chill runs down Aramis’ spine, a quiet disgust at himself that Porthos should want to servant himself to him. He shakes his head quickly and says with false cheer, “Oh, no, I’m sure I can manage on my own. Not to worry.” 

He nods again and looks away before he wanders away towards where Serge is serving up the morning meal. He has no appetite – hasn’t for days – and his anxiety and unhappiness sits like a ball in his gut, but he knows that he has to eat. He has to follow the captain’s instructions to his satisfaction so he’ll believe him when he insists that he’ll be quitting. 

He can’t stomach the idea of staying here when he no longer deserves it. The idea of going back onto active duty is terrifying – of wading into danger. Who would trust him now, when the apparitions of his deaths hang over his head, a constant reminder of all those he couldn’t protect, all those who left him. 

He breathes in and then breathes out, as steadily as he can manage. He might not ever sleep again, but he can do as the captain says – he can eat and he can rest, check up on the physician so he can tell him what he already knows: that he is injured, that he is broken, and that he yet still breathes. 

Serge fills his bowl and Aramis stares down into it. The food is grey in the bowl and the courtyard seems grey in the early morning light, just after dawn. Every muscle in his body throbs with pain and his head aches and all he wants to do is shut his eyes and sleep. He can hear whispers behind him but he hardly pays them any mind – far too used to the whispers, far too used to what they say. Anything anyone could say is nothing – it isn’t anything he hasn’t said to himself countless times over. They can’t hurt him now. 

Still, he doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes as he shifts a little, uneasy on his feet, unsure where to go to eat. Slinking back to his room feels too much like defeat. Working himself amongst his fellow soldiers is too – 

He isn’t ready for that yet. He doesn’t know if he can be. The muscles in his chest tighten up and he tries to regulate his breathing, tries to match the calm and collection he remembers seeing in Porthos. He remembers the way Porthos moved amongst his fellow soldiers, knowing full well what they think of him, knowing full well what they say of him beyond his hearing – and yet looking at Porthos, there was never an indication that it bothered him, that he wasn’t strong for his own strengths, his own abilities. Porthos had to learn such a thing from necessity – had to learn to be strong in the face of a world that cared nothing for him. Aramis never learned that, never learned what it was to be unloved, never passed a day where he didn’t expect everyone to enjoy his company or want him there. It’s only because his heart is so broken that he isn’t bothered by it now. 

There are sudden shouts behind him that cut off his thoughts. He turns in time to see Porthos pick up one of the musketeers standing beside Dupont, pick him up like he’s weightless, and slam him hard up against the wall, his face livid. 

Aramis watches in a dull shock as Porthos lurches back onto his heels, ducks down a little, and slams his fist hard into the musketeer’s face – what was his name? Théodore, perhaps – his face twisting and crinkling into something ugly and dark. Théodore’s face whips back at the force of his hit and he’ll surely get a black eye from that, it’s already swelling up beneath the force of Porthos’ sudden, crippling hatred. 

He almost takes a step, almost feels a flush of anger himself. How dare someone insult Porthos, how _dare_ anyone believe Porthos unworthy—

“Hey,” he starts, and his voice is too thin to carry, but it doesn’t matter because—

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ talk about him like that,” Porthos hisses out but he can’t finish the thought, can’t defend against Aramis – because god, he’s defending _him_ – because Théodore’s friend is jumping in to hit at Porthos and it only takes that one hit before the men are descending into a brawl and Aramis can only stand there, shaking all over, unable to say anything to stop it even as Porthos effortlessly fights off the two musketeers like it’s nothing, like it’s easy—

But it shouldn’t be, it shouldn’t be, God. God, no, it shouldn’t be. Porthos shouldn’t have to fight. Porthos shouldn’t have to be at odds. Porthos shouldn’t have to constantly be looking over his shoulder, questioning motives, keeping himself protected under lock and key. Porthos should be adored – he is worth that, he is always worth that. 

Porthos shouldn’t be jeopardizing anything for his sake, either. 

“Stop,” he says and isn’t heard over the shouts of the three men, the louder shouts of the men around them trying to pull them apart, trying to stop it all. And all the while Aramis can only stand there. 

The bowl of food falls from his hands he’s stepping forward, watches as Porthos ducks out from under closing arms and spits out blood, his face locked in an ugly, pained grimace as he spats at Théodore.

“Stop!” Aramis says, louder this time, and it’s loud enough that Porthos turns towards him, his lip split, that hatred melting from his face as soon as he catches sight of Aramis’ expression. Aramis grabs him hard by his arm and yanks, pulls him away from Théodore. 

Everything inside of Aramis is painful, everything is sore and taut and he does not deserve to be here and Porthos does not deserve to be held down by someone like him. 

“Stop,” he says, weaker, “It’s not worth it—” _I’m not worth it,_ he doesn’t say and says instead, “Just stop it.” 

Porthos relents, instantly, shoves at Théodore one last time before he’s stepping back. 

Théodore’s face is a sneer, something that wasn’t too unlike Marsac’s face in his darkest angers, “You his dog now, _du Vallon_?” 

Someone in the crowd – Dupont – tells Théodore off, sharp and disgusted, and a few other musketeers chime in to reprimand him for the words, for the actions. They shove him away until he wobbles out of sight, spitting angrily once and nursing what appears to be a twisted wrist at best, a broken arm at worst. Aramis isn’t sad to see him go. 

Porthos isn’t listening now, though, doesn’t react to Théodore’s words – he’s just looking at Aramis – his expression kind now that he looks at him, none of that hatred even a shadow in his eyes now – just concern, just worry. Aramis feels sick to his stomach. The words cut into him where Porthos can ignore it, let it slide off his back. But it wrenches deep into Aramis’ gut and twists. 

“Just stop,” Aramis tells Porthos. 

_Stop caring._

Porthos goes as if to step towards him but Aramis steps back, ducks his head, and retreats through the crowd of musketeers. His breath is a drumming sound roaring in his ears and he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let himself think about Porthos reaching out towards him. He retreats to his room, throws the lock, and leans against it. 

Predictably, there’s a small knock to his door several minutes later, rattling against his ear. 

“Aramis?” comes Porthos’ voice, soft and uncertain, as if whispering into his ear, standing so close with the door blocking the two of them. 

“Go away,” Aramis whispers and hates the words as soon as he speaks them, wants to throw open the door and drag Porthos in, cling to him and make him never leave. _Don’t leave._ His breathing rattles and he clenches his eyes shut. He whispers, “Just – come back later.” 

There is silence on the other end of the door, then a long, heaving sigh. 

“Alright,” Porthos says, does not demand, does not offer any explanation for anything. Aramis closes his eyes tighter, tries to steady his breathing. Porthos says, gentled, “I’m leaving some food out here for you, alright? Eat it.” 

Aramis says nothing and listens to Porthos’ retreating footsteps before he opens the door and takes up a fresh bowl of food he has no intention of eating. 

No one else arrives, no one knocks on his door, no one tries to throw the door off its hinges in order to get to him. He clenches his eyes shut and tries to control his rattling breath, shuddering and dying in his chest. 

He is not worth this. He can never be worth this. And yet being alone now – he hates it. He gasps out a stilted, pained breath. 

“Come back,” he says, and doesn’t know who he’s speaking to. 

 

-

 

A sound wakes Porthos. 

That’s just how he is. He’s never slept deeply, not really – not after years of living in the Court and needing to be awake at a moment’s notice. There were plenty of nights where life and death relied upon waking up in time. It’s a habit that’s carried over, even years after leaving the Court. The slightest sound will always wake Porthos up. 

He lies there in his room, though, and listens – searching for the sound that disturbed his sleep. He hears it a moment later – a muffled shout. 

Porthos sits up and opens the window above his bed. His quarters are on the ground floor and he peers out into the dark courtyard, waiting to hear the sound again. It’s rather quiet for a night in Paris – almost tranquil. There’s no one out there, and for a long moment all he hears is the distant din of working women and the drunk men ambling the streets beyond the garrison gate. 

Then he hears it again, that same muffled sound. 

Porthos studies the dark courtyard for a moment before he heaves himself from bed. He breathes out once and runs a hand down his face, slapping his cheek lightly to wake himself up properly. Porthos pulls on his boots and shrugs into his cloak, not bothering to get fully dress but taking up his sword just in case. He steps out through his door and listens again, careful, quiet. He moves as he always does in these situations – slow as liquid, smooth as silk, becoming the shadows that creep across the ground. 

When he gets like this, no one can see him, no one can hear him. He’s used to being ignored, he’s used to being overlooked – and he’s long since learned to use such a bias to his advantage. It’s what made him such a skilled thief in the Court – could have become King one day if he’d stayed, maybe. It’s what makes him a better soldier, though. It’s what lets him sneak up on enemies, overhear important plans, rescue those who need it. For all his brute force and all his strength – he knows how to sink into the walls. He knows how to become no one. 

The sound is coming from Aramis’ room. He really shouldn’t be surprised. He lets his shoulders relax marginally and just listens at the door. He hears some movement, then a muffled sound again – something akin to a sob.

Yes. The nightmares. 

He almost turns back. But he knows he won’t, knows it’d be impossible to do so. He hears another shuffling, distracted whimper from behind Aramis’ door. Porthos breathes in. 

Porthos knocks and the movement inside stills. Beneath the doorframe he can see a tiny flicker of light – a candle, perhaps. But Aramis is determined, it seems, to pretend that no one is home. Porthos knows better than to walk into the room himself and bust his lock. Knows better than to make Aramis feel all the less safe and protected. He knocks again, gentler this time.

“Aramis,” he says, pitching his voice loud enough that there can be no doubt that Aramis will hear and recognize his voice. “Let me in?” 

Sure enough, a moment later, the door does open and Aramis is looking at him through the crack in the door. He breathes out when he sees Porthos’ face. His eyes flicker across his face, and settle beyond his shoulder – unable to look him in the eye fully, unable to say much of anything. 

“Hey,” Porthos says in greeting. 

“What are you doing awake?” Aramis asks. 

“I could ask you the same,” Porthos murmurs, and leans against the doorframe. He doesn’t tower above Aramis as he might have at one time, but instead leaves himself at his level, makes himself as nonthreatening as possible – projects serenity and peace. He keeps his eyes soft, his words gentle and quiet. 

Aramis sighs out, closing his eyes. His eyelids flutter and his brow twists up for a moment – and soon enough he’s opening his eyes again. He looks so tired. He’s been back to the garrison for weeks but it looks as if he’s aged a decade in the short time between leaving for Savoy and now. Porthos’ heart thuds once and he swallows down all the things he could say.

Aramis is waiting for his answer, though, he realizes. So he settles on, “I couldn’t sleep.” 

Aramis’ smile is wan. “So you came to see if we should go out on the town? I’m afraid I’m not in the mood for drinking tonight.” 

“That’s not why I’m here,” Porthos says faintly. 

“It’s just as well. I’d be terrible company,” Aramis says, and it’s perhaps meant to be a joke, if the slight grimace he makes in place of a smile is any indication. Aramis sighs out, “I can’t say that I’m the best company to keep in any kind of circumstance.” The joke is wan, strained. He looks so tired. The bags hang heavy under his eyes. 

“It’s quiet,” Porthos says, which isn’t much of an explanation but he’s never been able to sleep in perfect stillness, anyway. Total silence in the Court was never a good thing. More than that, it’s strange to see Aramis so quiet. Not that he can blame him – not that he would ever blame him. “I can go,” he says, slow and cautious. “If you’d rather be alone…” 

Aramis hisses out through his teeth. He steps back and opens the door to Porthos, turning away. His word are vehement, weighed down with his own mourning when he says, “I never want to be alone.” 

Porthos thinks of all the times he could have gone to Aramis, to keep him company, over the last weeks. He thinks of all the times he considered it and then stopped, thinking that Aramis must want time on his own. 

Ah. He is a fool. 

Porthos stands on the threshold, uncertain. Aramis looks dead on his feet, and his bed is mushed up from where he was clearly tossing and turning. His hands are shaking as he adjusts the candle on the table and lights another beside it – flooding the dark room with more light. It flickers and tilts across the ceiling. The warmth of the light is enough to make Aramis looks less ghostly. 

Porthos can hear the sounds of a night in Paris filter in through the window, even latched as it is. It’s the first warm night they’ve had in a while, but Aramis is bundled up and there are several blankets strewn across his messy bed. He’s shivering a little – Porthos can see it in the tension of Aramis’ shoulders. 

Aramis turns a little and looks at him when Porthos still stands there, not taking a step inside. “You can stay,” Aramis says, gently. “If you want. I won’t make you.” That same grimace appears on his face again – an attempt at a reassuring smile that only betrays that deep sadness. “I’m sure you have somewhere else you’d rather be than deal with me.” 

Porthos looks at him then, in turn, studies his face – the corners of his eyes that hint at crows feet, if only Aramis would laugh again. The thinness to his face, the way his hair is already growing out, but uneven – he still hasn’t fixed it, his own mourning outweighing his vanity. 

“I wouldn’t want—” Porthos begins and then hesitates, falters. He sways on his feet and then steps inside, shrugging off his cloak. “No. Of course. If – if you’ll have me.” 

Aramis breathes out and his lips almost turn up at the edges with that – but he remains resolutely sad and distant, despite it. It’s more of a smile than anything else, though. Something lights up in his eyes, for half a moment, before he turns away. 

“Of course,” Aramis says, then softer, “Always.” He picks up a bottle of wine and looks at Porthos, and asks, “Did you want some?” 

“I thought you said you weren’t in the mood,” Porthos says, something that’s almost a tease. 

Aramis shrugs one shoulder. “Perhaps you are.” 

“You should be resting,” Porthos scolds. 

The barking sound Aramis makes might have been a laugh at one point, but it sounds mangled and devastated. Aramis shrugs again and sets the bottle down beside a cup and turns away once more. 

“I haven’t been able to sleep since the night you stayed here,” he admits. He rubs at his eyes. “Whenever I – every time I close my eyes, all I can see is—”

“I get it,” Porthos says. “You don’t have to say.”

“You don’t,” Aramis snaps out, rattled, shaking a little. The force of it is sudden and takes the two of them by surprise: “Don’t say you understand what I’m going through – you don’t know.” 

Porthos could say many things to that, and instead he just stays quiet – knowing that it isn’t cruelty on Aramis’ part, but the fraying edges of his own stress and unhappiness, his own grief and remorse.

“Guess not,” he says. “Guess the one who’d understand isn’t here.” 

He doesn’t mean it as any kind of jab or cruelty, but still Aramis flinches a little. Aramis folds his arms over his chest and tucks his head in, looking stubborn and upset as he stares down at his feet. 

“It wasn’t his fault,” Aramis says, quiet, but fierce. “No one has the right to judge him for that.” 

Porthos doesn’t quite bristle, but he does suck in a sharp breath. “He left you alone out there—”

“That I judge him for,” Aramis snaps, “I do. Make no mistake of that. I – I am so…” he trails off, bites at his lip, his expression wavering – as if he does not believe he has the right to his anger. He shakes his head and continues, “But I don’t blame him for wanting to run away.”

“That sounds like the same thing to me,” Porthos mutters, frustrated.

“You don’t – none of us know what we’d do in that situation until it happens.” Aramis falters for a moment, his eyes so far away and not looking at Porthos. “You can’t – don’t you dare pretend you know what your decision would be. Don’t you dare blame him for that.” 

Porthos feels his anger surge through him, insistent and involuntary. He hates that he doesn’t want Marsac dead even after all of this. He should. Fuck, he _should_ for what he’s done to the regiment, for what he’s done to _Aramis._ But he doesn’t. It wouldn’t do Aramis any good to see Marsac die. 

He understands the sharp place inside of Aramis now. A place that is now tarnished, broken and different – no longer so simple, so peaceful. Seeing Aramis like this now is telling, is far more vulnerable than seeing him break down into tears, screaming, tearing things apart – this is Aramis without the games he plays, without the charm sans reason, without his guileless smiles and chirping jokes. Aramis, for all his charm and his sway over people, is a terrible liar. Porthos knows a thing or two about lying and cheating, and Aramis can’t easily hide – his loyalty on display, his trust painfully scraped off the floor. No, as far as people go – Aramis is rather straightforward, once Porthos knows what to look for. Being injured and alone, in a sea of dead friends, can make even the happiest of men crash down. Porthos cannot blame him for that – never will blame him for that. 

“You’re still here. You stayed,” Porthos says, as if that is proper explanation. Aramis is still alive. Aramis survived. Aramis is still here – and Marsac is the one who left. “You made it through.”

Aramis isn’t looking at him, though. He’s folded into himself. He says, so quiet that the words are just wisps of air almost captured by the openness of his room, “Maybe it’d have been better if I hadn’t.” 

Porthos is stepping closer to him before he can quite think better of it. His hands come up and fist up into his tunic and holds firm. He steps in and crowds into Aramis’ space with the force of his own anger. 

“Don’t,” he says, his voice fierce and graveled out. “How can you think it’s—”

“Did you speak with the captain?” Aramis interrupts before Porthos can launch into all the things he wants to say. He looks at Porthos so helplessly, like he is resigned to it all – waiting for the anger, waiting for the resentment. 

The question derails Porthos enough for him to stumble through his confusion. “What?” 

“Why you’re here. Did the captain send you?” Aramis asks. “To make sure I stay?” 

Porthos frowns, his brow knitting, and he shakes his head. “You’re leaving?”

Aramis says nothing. His eyes flutter shut for a moment as he heaves out a breathless, pained little sigh. 

Porthos twists his hands up in his tunic more, holds tight. “I was awake and I heard you moving around. I wanted to make sure you were okay.” 

“Ah,” is all Aramis says. 

“You – don’t fucking say you’d be better off dead,” Porthos says forcefully. 

“Please let go,” Aramis whispers – and Porthos obeys him, releasing him immediately. 

Aramis shakes his head, steps back from Porthos. He turns away, wanders around his own room. Porthos stays where he is, just watching him as he moves. Aramis sighs out, touches at his hair, touches at his face, plants his hands against the wall and leans into it, trying to steady his breathing. 

“I don’t – I can’t live as just some reminder,” he says. “I know how you all look at me.” 

Porthos isn’t sure what to say to that, can feel nothing but his own anger at the other musketeers for making Aramis feel like this – anger at himself for being unable to fix this. Perhaps a distant part of him wavers over the deep, steady _need_ he feels to help Aramis. And yet he can’t and won’t fight against it. 

He tries to speak, and stumbles. “You – you once told me that if anyone treats me differently, they should be ashamed.” 

“This is different,” Aramis says, voice wooden.

“I see no difference,” Porthos snaps back. “Blaming yourself for something beyond your control? Something you can’t help?” Aramis looks up at him helplessly and Porthos continues, “They lost friends, yeah. But _you’re_ still alive.” 

“To remind them—” Aramis starts. 

“Weren’t you their friend, too? What the fuck is the matter with them that they’d treat you like this?” Porthos hisses out. “Shouldn’t they be with you? Shouldn’t they be helping you?” 

“Perhaps I never had as many friends as I once believed,” Aramis murmurs. “Now I’m just – a reminder. Of everything we’ve lost.” 

Porthos shakes his head – crosses the distance and touches his shoulder, holding gently. “So don’t be a reminder. Just be yourself. Be Aramis.” 

Aramis glances at him, frowning. He pushes himself off of the wall and seems to sink into Porthos’ touch. He looks up at Porthos fully after a moment, and he swallows down around some words. His expression wavers – and he breathes out, looking only at Porthos. 

“You enjoyed being Aramis before,” Porthos whispers, feeling out of place, feeling, yet again, totally unjustified to give advice and sympathy. He wonders if it sounds hollow to Aramis. 

But Aramis is looking at him, surprised, and then his expression goes soft and distant. “Yes,” he says, voice faint, “I wonder if I can even get back to that again.” 

“You can’t,” Porthos says – because there is no reason to lie about it. “But you can find something like it again.” Porthos shrugs a little, and takes a tentative step towards him, moving into his space. “You’ll find a way. It’s you.” 

Aramis actually smiles. Or, rather, the corners of his mouth turn up again – but this time it seems to almost reach his eyes, and it lingers for a moment even after it fades. 

“You should sleep,” Porthos says, gentle, apologetic. 

Aramis closes his eyes and breathes out, looks guilty for the moment before he speaks again. “Will –” He clears his throat for a moment, looks so small and uncertain for a moment, and then asks, “Will you stay?” 

Porthos nods. “Yes,” he says without hesitation. This, at least, he can do. “Yeah.” 

He steps back from Aramis, who follows after him – looking at him as if only seeing him for the first time now. He climbs into his bed, curling up beneath his blankets. Porthos sits on the edge as he did before, weeks ago, ready to reach out and rub his back as before – but Aramis shakes his head and reaches for him. 

“Lie down,” he mutters, not looking at him. Porthos obeys. 

It’s a tight squeeze and neither of them is small. They don’t touch, though, and Porthos shifts so that he’s almost hanging halfway off the bed in order to give Aramis the space he needs. Aramis keeps his back to him, curled up into himself and beneath all the blankets with Porthos just lying out on top of it. His feet bump against Porthos’. In the warm spring air, Aramis shivers.

“You’re cold,” Porthos says, half in surprise and half in question. 

“I haven’t been warm since that day,” Aramis answers to the wall. Porthos sits up and draws the curtain over the window, to block out any chill. The room will become stifling, but Aramis is cold. He can see a sheen of sweat across Aramis’ brow, though. The sheets shift. Aramis takes deep, steadying breaths. Porthos drops his hand, lets it skim down Aramis’ back in an attempt to soothe. 

In the dark like this, Aramis is a cold and bony thing but Porthos doesn’t care. He rubs his hand down Aramis’ back until Aramis shifts a little, sheds the blanket off his back and pulls up his shirt enough so that it is flesh against flesh – Porthos rubs his hands down his back, does little circles over his skin. There’s a smattering criss-cross of scars, a labyrinth of battles and wars won – and Porthos traces over each one with his fingertips. Aramis shivers occasionally, either from the attention or the cold Porthos isn’t sure, but otherwise doesn’t say anything. 

He thinks about the day weeks ago, when Aramis first came back. He thinks that, no, Aramis is right: he doesn’t know what he’s going through. He can’t know. Everyone’s pain is different. He thinks of Aramis climbing off his horse and looking back at the garrison gate, waiting even then for Marsac to appear. He thinks of his own reaction to seeing him home safe, that crippling relief that takes him by surprise even now after he’s had time to process it. He remembers reaching out to hold Aramis, to pull him back down to earth again. 

“Porthos?” Aramis finally asks, because after all this time he still hasn’t fallen asleep. His voice is muffled into the blankets. 

“Yeah?” Porthos asks. 

“… Thank you,” Aramis says, after a moment of struggling for the right words to say. 

Porthos breathes out and nods. “It’s fine. It’s always fine.” 

They lie there in silence for minutes at a time, in silence, and then Porthos skims his hand up his back again, against the back of his neck, touches at the feather light wisps of Aramis’ short hair. He thinks again of seeing Aramis ride through the garrison, slumped down off his horse. He thinks about how much he’s been thinking about Aramis, then and now. He has thought of Aramis. He’s thought of Aramis a lot. He remembers the night before Aramis left for Savoy, teasing Porthos, telling him to be sure to think of him fondly while they were separated, as if they were lifelong friends. 

He remembers Aramis leaving that next morning, riding out with the others, his horse next to Marsac’s. 

“Did you love him?” Porthos asks, and then regrets it for the cruelty of the question.

But Aramis just seems to sag. He must be grateful for a chance to even say it because there’s no hesitation when he says, “Yes.” 

Porthos’ hand is on Aramis’ back and so he hears the way his heart starts to pound, fast and fragile, and Porthos frowns to think that Aramis is this fearful of his response. He shifts closer, wraps his arm around him. He doesn’t press up against him, because it feels disrespectful to do so just after hearing him confess to loving another. But still, his hand touches at his chest, presses where he can hear his heart pound. 

“Feel that? Beating way too fast,” he says softly to his shoulder. Aramis tips his chin up, turns his head just a little to look at him, although Porthos doesn’t lift his eyes to meet his. “Just breathe,” he says. “You’re alive. You’re okay. You made it out.” 

Aramis sucks in a sharp breath and breathes it out again in a wobbling exhale. He closes his eyes. His heart pounds beneath Porthos’ hand. 

“You’re safe,” Porthos says again. “And I’m here.” 

Aramis’ breath is shaky still. 

“I won’t leave,” Porthos says, and knows he means it with every fiber of his being. He will never leave – he will never leave if Aramis is like this, if Aramis needs someone. In the wake of better options, he’s the one who will stay. He’s the only one who can. 

Aramis’ hands fist and unfist against the blankets. Porthos reaches out to take one, guides it along to press to his own, guides Aramis’ fingers to feel the pulse-point at Porthos’ wrist. A steady beat. 

“Like that,” Porthos whispers. “Follow my breath. Just breathe.” 

Aramis’ touch is feather-light, bird-fragile, but he doesn’t draw away from Porthos’ touch. If anything, the touch, sure and true, is what seems to make him finally relax. 

“I’m here,” Porthos says again, knows that he means it when he whispers, “I’m not leaving.” 

Tonight, with the room becoming almost suffocating in its heat and Aramis still shivering beneath his arm, Porthos thinks that he’d do what he can if it means helping Aramis. Aramis accepted him when he walked into this garrison, and he can do the same for him now. He’s walked away from people in the past, people he needed and wanted, people he wishes had wanted and needed him, too. He won’t do that again. 

He smoothes his hand down Aramis’ back as, finally, Aramis drops off into an uneasy and unpleasant sleep. Porthos knows, in that moment, holding his arm around him and feeling how shivery-taut Aramis is even in sleep, that he will never leave Aramis so long as Aramis needs him. He won’t do as Marsac did. Perhaps it isn’t his job, perhaps it isn’t wanted – but it will be what he has to do. 

Porthos doesn’t sleep – but it isn’t long before Aramis begins to squirm, his brow knitting together, his legs kicking out. It’s clear now what sounds Porthos heard before, as Aramis makes a soft, whimpering sound, a choked out noise that might have been Marsac’s name. 

Porthos does move to him, then, curls his arms tighter around him and properly holds him. He strokes his hair and shushes him, rocks him a little. He remembers his days in the Court, remembers Flea’s horrible nightmares when her older brother got kicked in the head by a stray soldier’s horse while he was pick-pocketing one day, only to die later that evening without any sign of distress. Just dropped down dead like it was as easy as that. He remembers Flea waking up sobbing and screaming. He remembers holding her and rocking her as he does to Aramis now, even though Flea was older and taller and seemed so much stronger than Porthos. 

He remembers being young and afraid, young enough to not remember meeting Flea or Charon yet – remembers his mother holding him and rocking him, shushing him gently and whispering out soft, gentle words he’s long forgotten now but remembers the sentiment of. She would rock him and sing to him. 

He remembers her in fragments – her gentled eyes, her slender hands. He remembers her low voice and her sad, sunken eyes – always a little lighter when she looked at him. He remembers her like this. The only time he ever felt small and sure was in her arms. 

He hopes he can do that for Aramis now – make him feel safe and sure. He hums out an old, tired lullaby he’s long since forgotten the words to. He lets it reverberate deep inside his chest, pressed up to Aramis’ back, lets Aramis soak it in. 

Aramis stirs but doesn’t wake, seems to finally relax against the nightmares. Porthos holds him through it, doesn’t let himself fall asleep. Protects Aramis even from himself. 

Aramis is simpler than he seems – easy enough to understand. Porthos wonders if Aramis would be alright, all on his own – and he thinks he knows the answer.

So he won’t leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JL is wonderful and drew [another scene](http://jlsdrawings.tumblr.com/post/120364824284/youre-safe-porthos-says-again-and-im) from this chapter! Go check it out and cry with me cause alsdhgasd; ahhh.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You ready?” Porthos asks. 
> 
> Aramis’ eyes are on the gate and he nods a little, pausing for only a moment before looking up at Porthos, studying his face. 
> 
> “I’m ready,” he tells him, and Porthos nods.

It is a struggle for Aramis to stand at attention. Not just because of his injury to his leg, which still throbs as he heals, still walking with a limp. And not just because he is standing amongst men he feels he no longer has the right to know, no familiar and comforting presence by his side – Marsac no longer there by his side. And not because Porthos is standing too far away, two rows back and three lines over. 

No, it is because of the nature of the captain’s message that makes it so difficult. He can hardly listen to the words as Treville walks before the musketeers, face livid. He wants to turn around and look at Porthos, wants to study his face for his reactions. Instead, he sees Théodore at the front of the lines, face dark with anger, eye swollen up and purpling. 

“And if I ever hear again that anyone is making a mockery of our position,” Treville continues on, voice strained and not quite shouting – which makes it all the worse, which makes his anger all the more palpable, “They will be stripped of duty effective immediately. Do I make myself clear?” 

No one answers, which is just as well. Treville stalks across the lines, one step away from spitting anger, staring down each man whose eyes meet his own. 

“You are meant to be brothers,” he says now, louder. “At the end of the day, you are to trust each other. If I hear any other man questioning another’s loyalty and abilities, they will answer to me. I’ll consider it a direct insult to my own ability to recruit.” 

Aramis can’t swallow down around the bile rising in his throat, his frustrations, the way his hands shake at his sides. He closes his eyes, tries to steady himself. This shouldn’t be so hard. It’s already been long enough, a few weeks now. He knows he can’t expect to get better, knows he’ll never be better again – but it hurts, all the same. It hurts that Treville won’t let him go, either. 

Treville walks in front of all of them and continues, “And under no circumstances should you respond to these accusations with violence. Attacking your brothers is absolutely unacceptable, no matter the reason.”

Aramis hardly hears the rest of Treville’s words around the roar of blood in his ears, a hot flush of anger at the captain. He means Porthos, how could he not mean Porthos. But Porthos did nothing wrong – he did nothing wrong, he was just foolish, he was just mistaking Aramis for having pride left to defend. He still doesn’t know what Théodore said of him, doesn’t really need to know in order to guess, but all he knows is that Porthos _was_ foolish to attack him as he had. He was lucky to not lose his commission. He was lucky not to have some kind of suspension beyond the public reprimand. Treville’s words to both of them, to all of them, is clear – there can be no mistaking it. 

Here, again, the captain says, far louder this time: “Do I make myself clear?” 

Aramis stares straight ahead, numb to the buzzing in his ears, and doesn’t hear the responding call and answer from the musketeers. Théodore gets one last long look from Treville before he turns towards where Porthos stands back behind Aramis. Aramis closes his eyes when Treville’s head turns, sweeping over the other musketeers, not wanting to meet his eyes. 

“Dismissed,” the captain finally says, sharp and tight with his frustrations, before he turns back towards the stairs to his office and the other musketeers disperse. One hits his shoulder as he passes and Aramis almost stumbles, but just tightens up, tenses up, and just sways on the spot – staring down at the ground in his misery. 

Then there is a hand on his elbow, large and warm, steadying him. He turns his head and finds Porthos looking at him. His eyes flicker across Porthos’ face, almost recoils at the gentle look he sees there – why, why now, why does he still – and he breathes out a shaky little sigh.

“I’m fine,” he lies. 

The hand stays on his elbow, but slides after a moment along his arm before it drops away. Aramis isn’t sure if he’s reassured or disappointed at the loss of contact. 

“You sure?” Porthos asks, quiet. 

The regiment has seen very little of Aramis for this first month following what happened in Savoy. Aramis can acknowledge Porthos’ attempts to comfort him, to check in on him – when usually Aramis would dodge out of sight or avoid company all together. Strange, that he should shy away from people when he so hates the idea of being alone. And yet seeing everyone is – too much. He feels that he is an apparition amongst his brothers. What comfort can he offer any of them? 

“I’m sure,” Aramis says, and looks down. 

The general feeling of tired resignation permeates the entire regiment – Aramis its epicenter, but everyone feeling it. They won’t get answers, in the end. They won’t get anything. The rumors and speculation die down, but the feeling remains the same – one of loss, one of mourning. 

He can remember being well-liked before. Remembered for his charm and his easy wit, his beaming smiles and his generosity with drinks. Now he floats in and out of shadows, ducks behind doors – like a common criminal, hiding out. How pathetic he must seem to them all – hardly leaving his room to get food, quiet and nonresponsive to anyone who deigns to come visit him now. He knows he should be doing better – he _has_ to do better or else the captain won’t believe him when he says he’s well enough to know himself, to know he has to leave the musketeers. 

“… I’m not ready yet, Porthos,” Aramis admits with a small shrug. 

Porthos frowns, but seems to understand. He hovers a little, and then looks down. “I’ll walk you back to your room.” 

Something prickles at the back of Aramis’ neck and he almost shivers. He doesn’t protest, though, just lets Porthos lead him along. There is a comfort with having Porthos so close, even when he believes himself unworthy of the company. He should not be this burden. Porthos should not have to subject himself to caring about Aramis like this. 

He stays in his rooms most days as it is – huddling beneath his blanket in a vain attempt to get warm, or pacing around his room like a caged animal. He tries to pen letters then aborts the sentiment just as quickly when he realizes he has no one to write to. 

He opens the door to his room, lingers in the doorway, and then presses on, running his hands over a few stray sheets of paper that had once been a letter to a mistress he’s fallen out of contact with. He really should call on her. But he hasn’t left the walls of the garrison since returning from Savoy – and leaving through the gate feels too final, too terrifying to bear. 

“They’ll eventually stop writing if I delay so long. It’s a shame, really, that I should be so unpopular,” Aramis says with a sigh, with the barest touch of his earlier humor – but it’s morose and pathetic at best, and Porthos has nothing to say in response. Aramis crumbles up a would-be letter and tosses it to the floor – but when he looks up, Porthos is frowning down at the paper with a furrowed brow, almost looking angry with Aramis’ cavalier approach to writing. 

Aramis sighs out, straightens up, and turns to look at Porthos fully. 

“I’m sure you have your duties to return to,” Aramis says, quietly, isn’t sure if he wants to dismiss him outright or beg him to stay for longer. He bites down on his tongue for a moment and frowns thoughtfully. “I – I suppose it’s—”

“I’ll be back later,” Porthos cuts in, gently, understanding what it is that Aramis struggles to ask. Aramis isn’t sure if it’s a relief that Porthos should know that or a terrifying prospect that Porthos can read his desires so easily. 

“I… alright,” Aramis agrees. 

Porthos nods once, and then he almost smiles before he turns away, heading back towards the door. Aramis sways on his feet for one moment before he’s walking after him, reaching out and grasping his shoulder. Porthos makes a soft sound of surprise and turns back towards him, frowning, the question already half-formed in his mouth.

But Aramis reaches up and touches at the corner’s edge of the black eye, the souvenir of his troubles with Théodore. Porthos stills, watching him. 

“… Don’t get into trouble,” Aramis tells him, and drops his hand away. “Especially not on my account.” 

“This?” Porthos says, as he taps the same spot Aramis touched. “This was for me. You don’t get to blame yourself for my own actions.” 

Aramis shakes his head but also doesn’t protest, doesn’t feel the urge to explain to Porthos that he isn’t worthy of protection, certainly not worth Porthos jeopardizing his security or his position, or the opportunity to make friends besides. 

But, again, Porthos must read his expression because he shakes his head and says, “It’s no loss to me. Anyone who could talk like that or think like that isn’t worth my time. Better to know it now.” 

Aramis closes his eyes and sighs. “I only—”

“It’s no loss,” Porthos repeats. 

Aramis sighs out, ducks his head, bites back the frustrations – that Porthos would feel the need to react so strongly because of words directed at him is bad enough. But he was called a dog for it, Aramis’ dog no less. 

“Hey,” Porthos says, and Aramis picks his chin back up again, jarred from his thoughts. Porthos’ hand – heavy and comforting – falls onto his shoulder. “I’ll be back tonight, yeah? I’ll bring food.” 

“You should… You should really be out and about on the town, Porthos. Enjoy yourself. Food, cards...” He fumbles a little, hands shaking as he fists them at his side. He breathes out. “Women.” 

Porthos shrugs, turns towards the door, and leaves with a smile. “I’ll be back tonight, Aramis.” 

 

-

 

It’s the middle of the day and Aramis cautiously picks at his food, stares down into the bowl and thinks upon many things and lingers on nothing. It’s difficult to center his thoughts. He hates it, really, to let himself wander too quickly and too far and find himself back in the cold and unforgiving south, his bones frozen, his blood chilled, his face pressed down blood-first into the snow. His eyes go distant. His hand shakes around the spoon. 

He entertains the idea of standing and marching up to the captain’s office and demanding his resignation – to just be done with it. But everyday he hesitates on the decision. Everyday it feels a little more difficult. He fears losing that resolve, he fears never being again as he was, never being able to be a good soldier again. He entertains the idea of simply getting up and wandering away into the night, follow in Marsac’s footsteps, fall away into the shadows, into the forest, into the night – never seen again and never thought of again, except to damn and to belittle. Remembered as nothing more than a traitor. 

He shucks into his coat further, shivers despite the warmth in the air, that threat summer. He can’t get warm. It’s already torture enough, to feel passing eyes on him – how strange that he used to love the attention, so long ago now. 

Wasn’t time meant to make things easier? But then, Aramis never did quite get the hang of that – never quite got the hang of _time passing_ and _healing wounds._ His heart still feels just as raw as the day he woke up without Isabelle in his arms. His heart still aches with the thought of a tiny life lost, a fatherhood denied to him. What a happy life he’d be living now. His son or daughter would be a few years old now, bright and sunny – they’d have Isabelle’s smile, her eyes. And he—

Someone touches his shoulder and he startles. He looks up to find Serge frowning down at him. “Eat your food,” he says. “It’s cold.”

“It was cold when you gave it to me,” Aramis says with false cheer, his smile feeling hollower than his own bones. Serge grumbles something uncharitable and shoves the bowl towards Aramis before wandering away again.

Aramis feels the ridiculous, stabbing need to call out to him and draw him back in again, to make him stay, to have _someone_ left to speak to, someone left to keep him from wandering further and further down into his spiral. How painful it all feels now. 

It’d have been better if he’d died in that forest with the rest of them. At least there would be honor in that. He picks at his food. But once the thought is there, it niggles and it burrows and he can’t be rid of it. He clenches his eyes shut, breathes out through his nose. It’d have been better. It’d have been better—

There’s a thud before him. When he opens his eyes, there’s a melon sitting there. Unassuming and unobtrusive. Aramis’ stomach twists up in his hunger and he looks up. Porthos, unsurprising, is standing there. 

“I thought this might be better for you than that stuff,” he says, and the mid-afternoon light plays at his cheeks, slides through his hair. He’s golden and glowing, and he palms at the melon in a way that would be obscene from anyone else, would be obscene to Aramis if his hunger didn’t outweigh all else. He’s nodding before he can quite articulate words, before he can quite understand he’s doing so. Porthos nods, solemn. “It’s better on a stomach.” 

Aramis hasn’t mentioned his inability to get food down, but then, Porthos is always observant. He compartmentalizes so easily, factors in so many things. He can take a quick sweep of a room and understand far more than others could even begin to understand after hours in the same place. For all things, Porthos examines. He surveys and scrutinizes. He files it all away. 

He draws a knife and cuts the melon in half for Aramis, slices it up into palpable pieces. Juice slides down over his gloved fingertips, drips onto the table, and Porthos offers Aramis a slice before he sits down across from him and watches him eat it. It’s ambrosia for Aramis, the first thing he’s managed to actually savor in – Lord, who knows how long. He practically inhales it, the meat of the fruit satisfying and sweet, caught in his beard and stuck to his tongue. 

“Don’t you have patrolling to do today?” Aramis asks, far too accustomed to Porthos’ schedule than he’d ever have thought possible – far too used to seeing Porthos in the evening and the early mornings, the rest of his day empty of his company. 

Porthos shrugs. “I had something to check up on here.” 

“I see,” Aramis says, faintly, and looks out at the gate to the garrison with no small amount of longing. There’s an itch under his skin he can’t reach, can’t scratch – a need, a desire to move. He isn’t ready yet. He can’t be ready yet. 

“Want to do something?” Porthos asks, suddenly, drawing Aramis’ gaze from the gate to look at him instead. 

He lifts his eyebrows. “What did you have in mind?” 

“Finish the melon,” Porthos says and Aramis obediently picks up the melon and munches on it, sucks at the juice from his fingers. Porthos watches him, presumably to make sure he actually eats. Then he asks, “Cards?” 

Aramis makes a soft, mournful sound and Porthos’ grin is bright and almost embarrassed. There’s a glimmer of something inside of him, a small twisting up of old humor, and he finds his smile touches at the side of sincerity when he say, “I know your tricks, Porthos.” 

Porthos’ grin turns blinding, and he makes a big show of stripping off his gloves and shrugging out of his coat before rolling up his shirtsleeves, the tendons of his wrists flexing a little as he shakes his arms out. “There,” he says, perfectly innocent but with a wickedness to his eye that Aramis finds he’s missed since that night he watched him cheat, “you’re lucky I’m not insulted at your insinuations, Monsieur.” 

There’s a lightness to his voice – perhaps some of it forced, perhaps some of it merely for Aramis’ sake, but he finds the good mood infectious and while Aramis can’t say his is a true smile, it at least comes easier, less automatic and defensive and more welcoming. 

“Very well,” he says. “Do your worst.” 

“Finish your melon,” Porthos says again as he shuffles the cards. “I’m not getting my deck wet.” 

Aramis picks up the last dredges of the fruit and eats it as he watches Porthos shuffle, watches the obscene glide of his thumbs along the backs of each card, the way his fingers fan out between each setting, sinking in deep and flipping, twisting, curling around them. It looks like magic, a work of art – and Aramis can’t look away. 

“So sure I’ll cheat?” Porthos asks, and Aramis can recognize the amusement, can recognize the light acceptance with which he says it – not waiting for Aramis’ confirmation, not bracing himself for disappointment, not throwing up walls to defend himself. Teasing him, instead. Aramis glances up at Porthos in time to watch him tilt his head and say, “I can beat you without the tricks, anyway.” 

“Of that I have no doubt,” Aramis says. 

Porthos sets the deck down before him after swiping his forearm across the table to clear away the remains of the food and debris. He gestures, a small sweep of his open palm before Aramis. “Cut the deck, Monsieur.” 

There’s a tease to the formality, too. Aramis is no high-born gentleman, from the lower end of the merchant class, and Porthos is no nobility either, but he speaks it like it’s a mere exhale, a gentle, light-hearted mocking – throwing that form away as easily as one does breath. Aramis finds it difficult to breathe for a moment, so uncertain about that certainty. He can remember a time when it all came so easily for him. He doesn’t fumble, he is not so uncouth for that, but he reaches out and covers his fingers across the gentle folds of cards – supple to the touch, well-handled and long-used – and cuts it in half, offering it back to Porthos. 

He watches Porthos shuffle one last time – his mind sinking away. How strange, to see such large hands do such delicate work. His fingers are thick, his knuckles swollen from use and more use, scarred. His palms are thick and callused, and it’s so strange to watch him handle the cards so effortlessly when little things are more likely than not flubbed in Porthos’ hands. With this, it’s natural. Easy. Quick and sure. 

And yet there’s no mistaking their strength. How easy it’d be for Porthos to reach out and twist his hands around his neck and seep the life from him, if he so wished. But instead, those hands lay upon his shins and shake him from nightmares of snow and blood, hold him gently – holding him down in safety, never sacrifice. 

Perhaps if Porthos had been in Savoy—

—he’d have died in the snow like the rest of them. 

He looks up suddenly to find Porthos watching him – and it’s worse than a slap to a face, to be caught thinking about it all. He lowers his eyes, ashamed, and hears a soft exhale from Porthos. 

“I lost you there for a moment,” Porthos says, quiet, and his hand reaches out and touches at Aramis’ wrist, his thumb swiping at one last little drop of melon juice stuck there.

“I’m back now,” Aramis says and wishes he could sound surer. 

Porthos watches him, then lowers his eyes and finishes shuffling – dealing out the cards between the two of them. He’s fast as lightning, quick, and it’d have been easy for him to cheat if he’d wished it, but Aramis doesn’t think he does. Not this time. He watches the way he deals, noting the arch of his fingers as he serves the card, the reverent way he cradles his deck. 

“I understand, you know,” Porthos says, and there’s a weight to it – something that isn’t pity, something that isn’t dismissal. Something knots and seizes up inside of Aramis – a kind of restrained need for it to not be so, that Porthos _shouldn’t_ feel this, couldn’t feel this. This is his. Porthos is still so unscarred, still so sure. Porthos should never have to face this pain, this wretched, chilling twist inside of him. Porthos should be happy. And yet he knows it can’t be so.

“I’m sure you do,” Aramis mutters, picks up his cards and stares down at his hand. It’s a favorable hand, but he knows how little that means when it comes to playing against Porthos. He licks his dry lips and asks, “How have things been for you? Since everything. I never – I should have—”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Porthos cuts in, fiercely – and there’s a touch of anger to the corner of his eyes when Aramis looks up. Porthos stares down at his cards. “I don’t need you taking care of me.”

“Yes, but—” _you shouldn’t have to be alone,_ he doesn’t say, thinks of himself locked away and hidden in dark corners of the garrison, unable to look anyone in the eye. 

Porthos shakes his head. “It’s been fine, Aramis.” 

Aramis closes his eyes. “Forgive me. I haven’t – I really haven’t… been in the best place to—”

A hand closes in around his wrist, holds tight. When Aramis opens his eyes up, Porthos is looking at him fiercely, face firm as he says, “I _don’t_ need you protecting me. I need you focusing on yourself.” 

“It’s a wonder to me,” Aramis says, voice quiet and uncertain, and he feels a little less haunted, a little less dead as he thinks of it, feels a fierce, coiling protectiveness surge up inside of him. “It’s a wonder to me that you could go so unnoticed by so many.” 

He wants to ask it – wants to ask what it is that makes Porthos seek him out. Why he finds his way back to his room every night, when Aramis is nothing interesting, nothing good, nothing but a man already half dead, soul left in the forests of Savoy. Why is it that only a ghost can see Porthos as he is – an amazing man. Why does it have to be only him who sees it? 

Porthos sits there, looking at him in a numb kind of silence, shocked. And then he shakes his head. “Aramis. It’s fine. I’ve been fine. Things are fine for me. Just – focus on yourself.” 

Aramis shrugs. “It’s easier to focus on you.” 

“Be kind to yourself for a change. You of all people deserve that.” 

“And you are a terrible judge of character,” Aramis says and looks back down at his cards. He folds. 

 

-

 

The days with Aramis pass like that, really. Porthos can’t blame him for shying away – for deciding he isn’t ready yet. He isn’t sure how much he can do, isn’t sure if he can do anything at all. But he knows that he isn’t going to stop, either – remembers taking care of Flea and Charon when they would let him. There’s a comfort, really, in being needed. 

The days pass as they often do. Aramis wanders his room, rarely strays out until he feels too cooped up. He paces his room. He lies in his bed. He tries to write letters and has the luxury of crumpling them up and throwing them away without a second thought. 

Aramis leafs through books without actually reading the pages. He cleans his weapons although his pistol hasn’t been fired in weeks – and how bizarre it is to see the weapon dismantled and strewn across his bed, looking strangely innocent and innocuous when the weapon’s killed plenty of men and seen plenty of battle. Broken apart as it is, it’s hard to imagine it as a weapon. 

Porthos makes a point to check in on him daily – once in the morning, before he leaves for his rotation, and once in the evening, when he returns. At first, Aramis looks at him in confusion, but soon enough comes to expect Porthos’ visits – always looks up a little eagerly whenever Porthos opens his door. He never smiles, but there are times when a lightness touches his eyes – as if he’d be smiling if he could summon the strength to do so. Porthos understands, all the same. 

Some evenings, when the fatigue pinches at the corners of his eyes, Aramis asks Porthos to stay. They don’t talk about it – once, the first time, Porthos grunts out an inquisitive noise, about to ask if it’s alright, and Aramis merely whispers a quiet “let’s not talk about it”, and that is that – and he never brings it up or questions it. He sits on the edge of the bed and stays there until Aramis falls asleep. He runs his hand down his back sometimes, and other times he just sits there and lets Aramis leech off of his presence until he can calm. But Aramis never fully rests. He tosses and turns, kicks his feet out, shivers and shudders, mumbles out words into his pillow – sometimes the words are French, sometimes they are Spanish, other times they sound like Latin – but Porthos isn’t sure enough to identify the words for what they are. 

The first morning of this arrangement, Aramis blinks his eyes open and finds Porthos sitting there. He’s flushed, angry at himself, and mumbles out a quiet and broken, “I’m sorry.”

To which Porthos only says, “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.”

“Perhaps that’s the problem,” Aramis replies, miserable. 

“I’m here,” Porthos reminds him – simple as that. 

And they never have to speak of it after that. It simply becomes what it is. 

Tonight, the air is thick with spring and pollen, and Porthos sits on the edge of Aramis’ bed as he tosses and turns, his brow rigid as he murmurs out nonsense words in his sleep. Porthos reaches out occasionally and rests a hand on his back to still him, and it works to soothe him, at least for a time. 

When it’s like this, all Aramis truly needs is the reassurance that he isn’t alone. Like this, sitting on the edge of his bed, it’s easy enough for him to reach out to him should he jerk awake. He’s learned Aramis’ tells by now – the specific way his eyes scrunch up just before he’s about to shout out, or the way his legs start to kick when he’s about to lurch forward to find a weapon, even half-asleep. Porthos stays in the room and lights a few beeswax candles to squint over Aramis’ books to spend the time when sleep won’t claim him. He finds it difficult to sleep in the room with Aramis, doesn’t feel he has the right to do that if he is to be something of a watchdog. The books provide a distraction, a puzzle for him to peer over. 

Aramis has a modest collection of works – some in French and some in other languages. Porthos sticks with the Bible, if only because he’s the most familiar with it, the only thing he can recognize by its format and heft. But even that is a struggle, even with Aramis’ own translation. Porthos tasks himself with it, all the same, mouthing out the scribbled script of Aramis’ own hand. He snaps the books shut long before Aramis ever awakens, and he always places it back on the shelves before Aramis can discover Porthos’ shame. Sometimes Aramis takes him by surprise, waking in time to see Porthos sitting with a book, but never seems to realize that he’s never turned a page in Aramis’ presence. 

It’s embarrassing to do this – and he can only manage it in the privacy of Aramis’ sleep. He struggles over the words, his nails digging against soft pages in an effort to understand and always coming up short. He feels the fool, to struggle over something that must come so naturally to his fellow soldiers. It is only because they are Aramis’ books that he doesn’t throw them across the room in his frustration. It is only because he fears Aramis’ response to a sudden, loud sound in his room that the books stay safe in his lap. 

Still, he is happy to provide this service – or, if not happy, than he does so willingly. He won’t object to listening to Aramis’ sleep-mumbles of nonsense, to listen to the hitch in his breathing and wait for the moment when he startles awake to comfort him. 

The worst are the nightmares. Those capture Aramis, lock him down tight and keep him twisted up – and it’s near impossible to wake Aramis from them. Porthos knows such dreams well – remembers nights with both Flea and Charon, when they were young and afraid and hungry. It’s clear when Aramis descends into one of these dreams because his whimpers take on a new pitch, and he starts to shiver, starts to break down and curl into himself. There are no stray kicks, there are no words – only agony, only a hitching sound that might have been a sob if he had any tears to spare. 

Aramis does so now, twisting up and shivering in the thick, pollen-rich air. Porthos can hear Aramis’ tiny, broken little whimper and he looks up from Aramis’ handwritten Genesis. Aramis arches once, face twisted up in agony, and he stops speaking entirely through that sleep. Porthos rises from his spot beside Aramis, sets his Bible down on the floor, and moves to the foot of the bed. 

He sinks down near Aramis’ feet, which kick out a few times but otherwise stay still. This was always the best way with Flea when he had to wake her from her dreams – and he grasps Aramis’ feet gently, fingers curling around his ankle and tugging once before he starts to shake him, waking him up from his feet upwards. He has a firm enough grip that there’s no danger of kicking, and at this angle he can avoid Aramis sitting up suddenly or throwing his arms out in defensive punches before he can find his orientation. He’s learned this lesson through many long years with Flea. And Flea has learned the same with him, after having tried to wake Porthos up from his nightmares only to have hands wrapped around her throat for her trouble. 

In a weird way, he gets used to this. Months ago, he’d never have thought he’d be in this situation with another musketeer, let alone another person at all. Even just one month and a few weeks ago, he’d have laughed at the thought of doing this for Aramis – but that was before Savoy. 

But then, things can’t stay the same. He gets used to it. He adapts. He always has. 

There’s something nice about being able to come back to a room after a long day of patrolling and have someone there waiting for him, someone who actually seems pleased to see him. He’s never really felt that before. Even with Flea and Charon, he must have been something of an annoyance – someone there for the sake of security, because the Court required numbers for that security. He doubts they think of him at all anymore. He should start thinking of them less – and yet he knows he never will. He could never forget them. 

Then again, perhaps Aramis is just glad for his presence only because he hates to be alone. Perhaps he’d look like that for anyone who might knock on his door and poke his head in. Aramis always looks up at him as if surprised he’s come back, but grateful that he has. He always sits up a little straighter, looks at the spot beyond Porthos’ shoulder. But even like that, Porthos doesn’t miss the darkness in that gaze, darker than the worst nights in Paris. Even then, he knows who he’s really missing, who he’s really hoping will come through the door. It’s unlikely it’s Porthos. 

Now, Aramis grunts out and sits up, abruptly, kicking away from Porthos’ hold on his ankles. The sheets and the blanket are all twisted up. Porthos sits calmly and looks up at him, waits a moment as Aramis looks wildly around. He waits for Aramis to settle before he rises again and returns to his previous position at Aramis’ bedside. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks Aramis, as he always does in these moments.

Aramis shakes his head, though, and looks away from him. His voice is quiet and uncertain when he says, “It’s nothing you don’t already know.” 

Porthos nods, reaches out and touches his shoulder, touch light – patting it before he stands to get him a cup of wine. Aramis fusses behind him, his breath rattling and his hands shaking. He takes the cup that Porthos offers to him but doesn’t drink. The liquid trembles in its cup from the force of Aramis’ shaking hand. 

“Drink,” Porthos murmurs and Aramis looks up at him like a child might before he looks away and downs it all in one gulp. Porthos takes the cup away and sits down again beside him. 

“I’m sorry,” Aramis says, weakly. “You can go back to your room, if you want.”

“Do you want me to?” Porthos asks and when Aramis doesn’t answer, Porthos says, “I’ll stay here, if you don’t mind.” 

Aramis shifts a bit, leans back against his pillow and blinks up at the ceiling. He breathes out, touches at his forehead, fingers glancing at the wound at his temple, drags his hands down his face. He twists a little, after a moment, in order to look at Porthos – to study his face. 

“How’s your eye?” Aramis asks. 

The black eye he’d gotten from his fight with Théodore – the damn bastard – has healed up nicely at this point. Still, Porthos shrugs, gives him a small smile and says, “It’s fine. Better than ever.”

“You really shouldn’t have done that,” Aramis says, as he always says whenever he brings up the eye as he has in the last week and a half since Porthos got the hit. “But…” Aramis asks, after a moment, and his voice sounds tight, “Were you punished?”

Porthos shrugs. “Extra stable duty. Nothing I can’t handle.” 

“Mm,” Aramis murmurs, but seems to relax – seems satisfied with the captain’s decision. 

“His arm hasn’t healed – the captain discharged him from the ranks,” Porthos says, somewhat smug. 

Aramis tilts his head a little, looks up at him, studies his face. Porthos holds his gaze, lets Aramis study over him. There’s no judgment there, at least – no disgust that Porthos should find satisfaction in some revenge. But there is a quiet kind of sadness, different from the look he’s held ever since stumbling from the forest. Aramis eventually sighs and closes his eyes, though, and leans against Porthos’ shoulder. “You could have snapped him in two if you really wanted to.”

Porthos smiles. “Damn right.” 

 

-

 

When Porthos turns around a few days later from Serge’s stand, two bowls of food in his hands, he’s shocked to see Aramis standing there. He shivers a little in the open air, without his cloak, despite the growing heat in the air as the days roll steadily closer towards summer. There are birds chirping from the rafters and the sun is high in the sky. It just highlights how cold and pale Aramis truly is – hiding away in his room, eyes sunken. 

“Aramis,” Porthos greets, surprised. “I thought—”

“I needed—” Aramis breathes out, frowning as he tries to collect his words. He shakes his head. “I need to talk to you.” 

“Alright,” Porthos offers, and holds out one of the bowls towards him. “We can head back, if you want. I was just going there myself.” Some of the other musketeers pass by, nodding hellos to Porthos and small greetings to Aramis. Others ignore them completely. There are no snide remarks – Porthos has made sure of that. If there are any other naysayers when it comes to Aramis, he’ll silence every single one of them every time. 

Aramis doesn’t take the food, though. He shakes his head, expression clouding over as he looks down, frowning deeply. Porthos hesitates, too, and frowns. 

“Aramis,” he starts. 

“Come with me,” Aramis states, turns, walks towards the stables. Porthos frowns, and sets the bowls down on the table near Serge before following after Aramis. 

The stables are quiet, most of the horses gone for the day out on rotation with their owners, and the stable has recently been mucked out – thankfully not by Porthos, who has since graduated from the menial tasks assigned to him as a recruit. 

“What is it?” Porthos asks once they’re settled inside of the stables. Aramis leans back against one of the support posts, arms curled around himself and sighing out, looking anywhere but at Porthos. He studies the curve of a saddle hitched over a railing. 

“I need you to… stop visiting me so much,” Aramis finally settles on after a brief moment of silence, of his mouth opening and then shutting again. 

Out of the things he’s expected to hear, that isn’t it. Porthos frowns, confused, and takes a step towards him. “What?” 

Aramis sighs out, shakes his head when Porthos shifts too close – and Porthos backs off. He stands there in the center of the stables, one of the horses nickering off to his left and another stamping her hoof. Beyond that, it’s quiet in the stables, a kind of strange hush between them. 

Porthos knew this could happen – that it’d be too much, that Aramis would want time alone after all, away from Porthos. But still—

“You’re not taking care of yourself, Aramis,” Porthos begins.

“I never asked you to do that,” Aramis whispers out and shrugs, helpless. “I never asked for it, Porthos. I don’t – it’s bad enough with everything going on. I don’t need—”

He cuts himself off, stills into a pained silence. Porthos stands there, feeling somewhat foolish, and doesn’t move from the spot – doesn’t dare move closer. 

“I don’t… need this,” Aramis settles on. “Believe it or not – I am actually capable of taking care of myself. This is hardly – I’ve been a soldier for a long time.” 

“Alright,” Porthos settles on. “Then prove it and take care of yourself.” 

Aramis’ shoulders tense up and he gives Porthos sharp look – but it melts away almost instantly, into something more pained, softer. Uncertain. He crosses his arms at his chest and holds steady like that, bites at his lower lip for one moment before he just sighs out and looks up to the ceiling of the stables.

“They’re calling you my dog,” Aramis says.

“So?” Porthos asks, feels his jaw clench at the thought of it but wills it away – it is not the first time and it is not the last time he will be called it, after all. It’s not the worst he’s been called, either. He knows that. 

“So I don’t _want_ that!” Aramis insists, voice tightening up and a little firmer now. He stands up a little straighter, more sure of his words. “I don’t want you to have to – subject yourself to helping me, and have everyone believe you to be some kind of… servant for me.” 

“Do you think I’m servicing myself, then?” Porthos asks, crossing his arms, frustrated. 

“I don’t—”

“So some are gonna call me a dog – why the hell should I care about that? I know who I am. I know why I’m doing this.” He drops his arms, takes a step towards Aramis – who doesn’t protest this time. Porthos shrugs. “A dog is hardly the worst thing I’ve been called. Dogs aren’t too bad, you know, as far as animals go – they’re loyal, I guess. Good at fighting, good at following orders. Strong.”

“You are _not_ a dog,” Aramis interrupts, fiercely. “You are an intelligent, thinking man.” 

Porthos is quiet at that – should not feel warmed by something that is obvious, something that shouldn’t even be questioned. And yet hearing it so fiercely from Aramis – he pauses, briefly, looks down and shrugs. Draws in a deep breath.

“What should I do, then, Aramis? Fight against every insult lobbed my way? Punch anyone who calls me a brute?” And thereby prove it so, at least. Again, Porthos shrugs. “I’m always going to be called things like that.” 

Aramis presses a hand to his face, shaking his head. “It isn’t – That isn’t what I mean. I don’t – I can’t have you not belong here simply because you’re helping me. Your position, the friendships you’re building—”

“If there really are people saying those things about me,” Porthos interrupts, not unkindly, “why the hell would I want their friendship?” 

Aramis lapses into a silence. His hands are shaking a little before he grips his arms a little tighter – not looking at Porthos now.

Porthos steps in closer, lifts his hands and touches his shoulders, ducks his head down so they’re meeting eye to eye when Aramis finally turns his head back towards him. 

“And you, Aramis? You think that this is me posturing myself to you? That I, what, want you to be my keeper? That I secretly think servitude suits me?” He isn’t yelling, but there is a thread of anger to his voice – studying Aramis’ face carefully as he speaks. “You think I’m helping you for any other reason other than I want to?” 

“I don’t understand,” Aramis says. “Any of it. Any of this. Why do you keep coming back?” 

It’s a question Porthos has asked himself any number of times. He doesn’t answer right away, collecting his words, and settles on, “You don’t want to be alone. I don’t want you to be, either.” 

Aramis doesn’t respond. 

Porthos thinks of the Court, for one brief flash, before he pushes it away. “My reasons are my own.” 

Aramis makes a mournful sound. 

Porthos continues, quietly, “It’s not as bad as you think it is. One or two people saying ignorant shit? That’s something I’ve grown up with, you know? I can handle that.” 

“You shouldn’t have to,” Aramis whispers. 

“No, I shouldn’t,” Porthos agrees, “But I do it anyway. Everyone out there – they’re worried about you. One or two talking out of their asses don’t matter. Everyone out there – they’re your friends. They worry about you. They want you to be okay.”

Aramis closes his eyes, breathes out shakily. “I don’t…”

“And it’s okay if you can’t be right now,” Porthos says, gentle. “Now – if you really want me to leave you alone, for good, I will.” He pauses and Aramis gives him a helpless, pained look. Porthos smiles, uncertain, and says, “But I think you should let me stick around. Okay?” 

“Okay,” Aramis agrees, and sags forward, pressing his forehead to Porthos’ shoulder and slumping against him with a shaky, pained little breath. “… It’s a shame.”

“What is?” Porthos asks, patting his back gently for want of something better to do with his hands. 

“That we couldn’t have met under better circumstances. I imagine it’d be quite different if we were happier. At our best. We’d be quite the team.”

Porthos laughs out, a small, quiet huff. “Yeah,” he agrees, looks up at the ceiling to the stables and then back down at Aramis. “We probably would be.” 

 

-

 

“What’s that?” Porthos asks one evening, entering into the room after the cursory knock. He strips off his cloak as Aramis sits at a little table. He looks up when Porthos enters, startled for one moment before his expression softens into something fonder. Porthos nods towards the paper in his hand. 

“Ah,” Aramis says, and looks down at it. “A letter.” 

Porthos hums a little and hangs his cloak on the hook by the door. Aramis watches absently as Porthos dismantles himself – unhook his gun from his belt and tugs the sword free, leaving the sword resting against the wall and his pistol on the table. How strangely natural the movement is – how strangely natural it’s become that Porthos should find his way here and find himself comfortable. He wonders how long that will last. Inevitably, eventually, Porthos will find himself elsewhere. Everyone always leaves, in the end. 

But maybe Porthos won’t. Maybe Porthos—

But he shouldn’t think like that. He shouldn’t let himself get his hopes up. 

For now, though, there’s at least some reassurance in Porthos coming here. Porthos is vibrant and alive – sometimes arriving with a sheen of sweat from the growing summer warmth, sometimes dirty and scraped but never seriously injured. Sometimes there is the dragging, lingering taste of bloodlust hanging off of Porthos’ shoulders as he tells Aramis about a scuffle in the marketplace. Every night, he watches Porthos come back and seem more alive, seem to really bloom around the quiet, jagged edges of a wounded regiment. Aramis should not feel proud. 

“You been in here all day?” Porthos asks, as he always asks. 

“I ate,” Aramis tells him – hates how proud of himself he feels at saying it. It’d been a small meal, barely anything at all, and there’d hardly been anyone there to eat with him but a few of the stragglers between rotations and Serge. But it’d been something. 

“Hey,” Porthos says, and smiles at him – and he really shouldn’t flush at that look and yet here he is. “Good for you.”

Aramis shrugs, looking down, his stomach all twisted up with the complete lack of appetite he’s harbored for weeks now. He can’t keep anything down but he’s trying. Everything still feels too fresh. Every day that ticks by means another day between him and losing his friends – and yet it remains as raw and broken as yesterday, as if it all happened this morning. 

Aramis folds up the letter now. 

“Read it for me?” Aramis asks, leaving the page on the table and wandering back to his bed, lying out on top of it and looking up at Porthos, imploring. “I don’t have the concentration. But I really… I should write her back.”

Porthos stays very still for a moment, any sense of relaxation or easiness evaporating instantly. Aramis frowns a bit, watches as Porthos swallows down hard around words he doesn’t speak. When he moves to the letter, he moves stiffly, reaches out slowly and takes up the page, looking down at it. 

“It’s yours,” Porthos mutters in small protest, looking down at the script sprawled across the page.

“I don’t mind,” Aramis sighs. “It’s from a patroness, of sorts. Lovely woman, recently widowed. You’d like her – she’s rather good at cards, when she deigns to play the game.” 

Porthos grunts, frowning down at the words. 

“Her letters really do demand to be heard aloud, however,” Aramis sighs. “She has quite a way with words. Very… adept.” He can remember plenty of evenings spent whispering poetry against her skin just to hear her thrilled little laugh. He was so happy so long ago, surrounded by all these people who loved him and enjoyed his company, surrounded by people and laughing, happy, as if he had no cares in the world. Aramis shrugs. “Like I said, you’d like her.”

Porthos says nothing, frowning down at the letter still. Aramis waits patiently for the words, curious to hear the way Porthos’ mouth would cadence and glide across the poetically written filth his patroness often bestows upon him. He suspects this time her words will be one of sympathy, of longing, of imploring him to come meet her – and he is not ready to read that. Perhaps it will be easier to hear. Perhaps it will be better to hear it from Porthos, all the same. 

“… I _can’t_ ,” Porthos says, eventually, his voice tightening up. He doesn’t look at Aramis. 

There’s something in the way he says it and Aramis looks up at him, frowning out and brow furrowing. There’s a flush to Porthos’ cheeks and he doesn’t look at him or the letter. It’s strange, really, that Porthos would avoid his eye. 

Aramis sits up a little and reaches out for the letter. Porthos hands it over, wordless, lips thinned out. “Never fear,” Aramis says, voice light to hide his disappointment and his confusion. “Madame Moreau has always been very… prolific with her words, it’s no wonder you’re blushing. I suppose it is a private matter better suited for my eyes.” He studies Porthos’ profile, and he shifts a little, uneasy. He grips the letter a little too tightly and it crinkles in his hand. “Porthos…” he starts. “I—”

“It’s fine,” Porthos interrupts.

“I hadn’t meant offense,” Aramis says, fumbling, _unsure_ of what it is that he’s done. “She doesn’t mind others reading her—”

“I said it’s fine,” Porthos snaps out, bristles, and then forces himself to relax – turns towards Aramis in apology. “It’s fine,” he says again, softer. “Just forget about it.” 

Porthos says nothing and hardly looks at him for the rest of the evening. Aramis says nothing in turn, to further hide his disappointment, his longing to hear his voice. 

 

-

 

It is simple at first – a quiet need growing inside of him. He begins to eat his meals not in his room but, rather, outside. He can’t handle large crowds yet, but well over a month since the massacre at Savoy, weeks since the funeral, it is at least better than it was – he at least does not hide away in his room, hardly eating. He can’t dare to look at himself in the mirror yet, he can hardly sleep at all – but he can at least get down some food. 

It starts out simple like that. A desire for food. One morning, he wakes up with Porthos sitting up against the wall, his breathing just a step below snoring, and he almost smiles – distracted when his stomach growls loudly, the twisting up inside of him one of hunger rather than unhappiness. He eats breakfast that morning with Porthos, a little startled at it, walking with an uneasy, unhurried step. Lingers in the archway just before the courtyard.

And Porthos had looked at him, expression soft, before he stepped out and called out, “Make way, we’re hungry.”

Aramis, stunned, had merely been able to follow him, eyes wide and hands shaking – hating how tentative he felt, like a young schoolboy about to be reprimanded by his tutor, and he was never one for fear. It isn’t fear now, but it is a quiet kind of step – walking out of shadows and into another step, then another. He walks. He sits. He eats, surrounded by five other men and Porthos. And while he can’t say he necessarily thinks he belongs, it is better than it was sitting in his room stewing in his silence. 

After that, it wasn’t just for meals – he walks out into the garrison courtyard and watches the proceedings, watches training with swords, with pistols, watches men dress down their horses, squires mucking out the stables, sweeping at the steps. He watches men adjust their weaponry, clean their muskets, mill around and do nothing at all but chat. He can’t find himself joining them, still feels like an outsider despite being the veteran – and he can’t help but feel that every eye that flicks his way is judging. But it is a step. It is his step. 

He always seeks out Porthos – finds him in the crowd effortlessly. He is loud and vibrant, he schools anyone who dares to challenge him – except in shooting, and just once Aramis’ hand itches to show them all how it’s done, properly – but Porthos captures attention, aggressively cheerful, his new tactic. Make them notice him. Make it impossible to ignore him. 

Aramis meets his eyes and finds, quite suddenly, that he is smiling – for the first time in weeks, for the first time in forever. A smile that doesn’t feel brittle, doesn’t feel incomplete. There is reassurance in seeing Porthos thrive, in seeing him fit in, seeing others offer him greetings, seeking his advice, seeking his company and invitations to drinks and games. Aramis smiles, feels a warmth flush through him. 

It’s good. Even if Aramis isn’t here, Porthos will be alright. Porthos will have friends. Porthos will belong. 

Porthos deserves this. 

 

-

 

Tonight, Aramis touches at his hair – shaggy and unkempt, untrimmed since the sheering to get at the wound. His fingers ghost over the puckering of stitches there and holds. He breathes out. 

“You’ll have to remove the stitches,” Aramis says, voice faint, touches at his temple where the wound is almost completely closed up, but itches around the thread. 

Porthos prods at the wound and Aramis doesn’t flinch back. He fans his thumbs out on either side of the gunshot, sees the faint scarring beneath the thin thread, far lighter than the hair that’s already starting to grow back. The scar will remain, but it won’t be visible unless Aramis wishes it to be, unless Aramis brushes back his hair for the world to see. 

He drops his hand down and curls around Aramis’ chin, feels the bristle of his beard. He tilts his chin up, frowns at the wound and squints at it in the candlelight now. Still faint beneath the thread, but healed. The scar will remain. Porthos leans in a little closer. He assesses. 

Aramis closes his eyes and there’s the smallest hint of smile that doesn’t quite manifest. “Afraid?” 

“I’m not afraid of anything,” Porthos mutters, an automatic response, an automatic defense to the usual barb that Charon would throw at him whenever he hesitated on stealing for their dinner. He can feel the slightest beat of Aramis’ pulse beneath the fingertip pressed to his temple. 

“Your hands are large,” Aramis says, and it’s more a statement of fact than anything else but still something knots up inside of Porthos. “You don’t do the delicate work as well as you wish. I’ve seen you trying to mend your shirts.” 

Aramis’ hand touches at a poorly mended spot on his shoulder – the fabric puckered up and the stitching fat and uneven, stitched with a shaky hand. Porthos really has no talent for something so delicate. The needle always felt strange in his hand, and he never developed the skill for it growing up. He lived with more holes than he ever cared to remedy. 

Porthos doesn’t deign to protest against the observation. But after a moment he says, cautious, “You were impressed with my card work.”

The smile on Aramis’ lips is faint and fleeting, but it is there all the same. “True. Have you ever removed stitches before?” 

Aramis takes up the knife and presses it into Porthos’ palm – and even that gesture, slow and stately though it is, reminds Porthos that there is still something lethal about Aramis. There is a ghost haunting him, and his eyes are dark and telling, and his hands still shake. He still can’t get warm. His pistol is dismantled on the table, half-way through cleaning. Aramis, dismantled, seems so uncertain. And yet. He is quiet and he is wilted, perhaps, but he is lethal. There is the promise of it beneath every movement, with the simple, sure press of a knife to his palm. Porthos doesn’t think he can ever truly forget that. 

Porthos doesn’t answer the question and instead asks, “You trust me to do it right, then?” 

Aramis hums out once, expression thoughtful, and he brushes his hair away from the wound and tilts his head towards Porthos’ hands. “There is no one else I can trust with this.” 

Porthos thinks of the garrison’s surgeon. He thinks of the captain. He thinks of the other musketeers. There is no short supply of able hands who could do this work better than him, without the risk of slicing too deeply, of causing more injury. But then, he remembers the first day Porthos reached for those bandages and Aramis flinched away. 

Perhaps Aramis wants him to slip. Or, perhaps, he does trust Porthos to hold steady while he himself shakes apart. 

Porthos lifts the knife. 

He cuts through the stitches. Aramis keeps his eyes shut, his lips parted – breathing in and then breathing out again. They don’t say anything to one another, even well after the last stitch is cut away and no blood sheds. 

Aramis hands him the surgeon’s pliers. Piece by piece, Porthos tugs the threads free from his skin. Aramis doesn’t flinch, just keeps his eyes shut, his lips slightly parted as he breathes out. He seems to relax under Porthos’ attention. One hand steady on his hair, cupping his head, the other tugging each strand free. And once he’s done, there’s nothing left but the scar. 

“How do I look?” Aramis asks, and there’s almost a lilt of teasing to the words. He tilts his head, looks at Porthos through his eyelashes. 

Porthos shrugs one shoulder. “You look fine.” 

Aramis thumbs at his scar, curiously, getting a feel for it without the thread now. He hums out thoughtfully. 

“Porthos,” Aramis begins, after a moment, dropping his hand away. “I – I’m really tired of being here.” 

Porthos nods, cautious, indicating he should proceed. 

Aramis heaves a small sigh. “I… Tomorrow is Sunday. It’s – I would… Would you like to go to mass with me?” He breathes in and adds, “I know you said you don’t much care for church, but I’d—”

“Nah, it’s alright,” Porthos interrupts, shaking his head. “I’ll go with you.” 

It’ll be good, to get Aramis out of his room, out of the garrison. Since visiting the church the last time, Porthos can’t remember Aramis actually leaving past the gates to the garrison. It’ll be good for him. 

Aramis breathes out, relaxing instantly, and he actually smiles – a tentative, uncertain little thing, but there all the same, bird-fragile. It’s so strange, really – how small and uncertain Aramis can look lately, like he’ll break apart. And how false the image is – how strong Aramis is, how already he’s mending himself back together, how already he’s able to smile like this again. Not like it’s easy, it’ll never be easy again Porthos thinks. But it’s something. 

The next morning, when the morning bells ring and Porthos goes to fetch Aramis, he finds him actually looking at himself in the mirror, washing at his face, trying to pat back his hair. It’s far from perfect, still in need of trimming, and his beard is more unruly than he used to wear it – but it’s something. Aramis dresses, a laced collar, a shirt Porthos has never seen from him before – and he places his hat slightly askew on his head to hide the scar at his temple, drapes on his coat and moves to fasten his cloak. Porthos lifts no hands to assist him, lets him do this for himself, and at the end of it, he gives Porthos a grateful smile. 

They walk out into the spring air, the courtyard quiet at this time of morning. Aramis takes a deep breath beside Porthos, adjusts his hat, squints out at the day – sunny, slightly warm. 

“You ready?” Porthos asks. 

Aramis’ eyes are on the gate and he nods a little, pausing for only a moment before looking up at Porthos, studying his face. 

“I’m ready,” he tells him, and Porthos nods. They walk, slowly at first, and Porthos doesn’t know if the moment is as significant to Aramis as he feels it must be, as they pause just slightly at the archway leading to the outside streets of Paris. 

Aramis takes a deep breath, nods once, and then they walk out together and make their way towards the church for the morning service. It’s a step. It’s something. 

 

-

 

It goes from there. For the next two weeks, Porthos accompanies Aramis to church. They go to Sunday Mass together, but otherwise, Aramis finds himself going there during the day, when Porthos is away on his daily rotation. It’s just as well – it gives Aramis a moment alone. He prefers to have the company, but he is never alone in a church, not with God there. 

It’s odd, to find himself there again. He remembers his words when he first returned – questioning, wondering. Perhaps part of him still wonders. But as he gazes at the Christ on the pulpit, he knows that, for all the suffering, his God is one of love. He has to believe that. 

It becomes easier after that. He can walk down the streets, doing simple, menial tasks. Delivering letters. Purchasing some food for Serge from the marketplace vendors. The streets are narrowed, but open enough that he never feels closed in. He has always found his safety, his space, in the cityscape. There is comfort in the sound of moving carts, working women, drunken men ambling outside of inns, mothers and daughters shopping together in the market square. The clasp of hammers against steel, the squish of boots in the muddy roads. There is comfort here, he need only look. 

It’s embarrassing that such simple things should make him feel so secured, but Porthos never laughs at him when he admits as much to him. Instead, he just smiles at him, nods, and says, “The city’s really all I’ve ever known, too.” 

There’s an edge to the way he says it, although his expression is only ever soft when he looks at Aramis. 

Still, Aramis knows he’s grateful for it all – knows that, even if it ends, there is security in Porthos’ presence. For however long he has it, he’s grateful. 

When he returns after gathering supplies for Serge, he goes to Porthos’ room and knocks on the door gently – tentatively. It is usually Porthos going to Aramis’ room now, but now he can’t regret it when Porthos opens the door, fills in the space, breathes out around a small smile when he sees Aramis. 

He steps aside to let Aramis in. Aramis sighs out, wanders in and heads straight for the bottle of wine Porthos has on his table. He pours the wine and takes a long drink from the cup. Then he wanders around Porthos’ room, looking it all over. It’s smaller than Aramis’ own, and has less things in it – only the smallest collection of books, a modest amount of candles, less blankets on his bed. Then again, Porthos is something like a fire, he likely doesn’t need the extra coverage. 

“I believe the Captain will return me to duty soon,” he says as greeting. He sips his wine. 

There’s a touch of frustration to his voice and Porthos watches him, knows that Porthos will have heard that aggravation. He isn’t sure why it bothers him. It’s been long enough. He’s been taking better care of himself. He’s feeling antsy, now, locked away – self imposed or otherwise. There’s a freedom to walking the streets of Paris, a reassurance – but it is paltry at best. 

“Do you not want to?” Porthos asks, his voice slow and cautious. 

“I don’t know,” Aramis relents and stops pacing around Porthos’ room to turn back towards him. “It’s… I suppose it’ll give me something to do. Take my mind off things.”

Porthos nods. “That’s true.” 

“But,” Aramis says, haltingly. He stares down at the floor, down into his cup – then twists around to look at Porthos again. “What if… What if I don’t wish to forget?” Aramis whispers, and the words are pained, uncertain – like there is something _wrong_ in not wanting. “What if I don’t want it?” 

“Don’t you?” Porthos asks. 

“Sometimes,” Aramis admits. “I think I do, sometimes.” He looks down and sighs. He moves to Porthos’ bed and sits down upon it heavily, leaning back a little, looking at Porthos helplessly. He knows how he sounds. He knows he must look like some kind of mad man. “And sometimes I think I have to remember – because if I don’t remember them, who will?” 

The words sag out of him, locked away for so long now – to release them is something like a punch to the gut and a release. He presses his hands to his face and sighs out, that admittance taking every ounce of strength he has left. 

He hears Porthos move, hears him scrape his chair across the floor as he pulls it forward to sit down across from Aramis. Aramis can see his boots in his line of vision although he doesn’t look up. He hears Porthos adjust, hears him sigh out. 

“The captain told me – before, a while ago. He told me that the first reports said everyone died. You thought I died?”

“Yes,” Porthos says again. 

“Were you–”

“If you ask me if I was sad, I’ll hit you,” Porthos murmurs. 

“Would you have remembered me?” Aramis asks. “If I’d died there, too?” 

“Yes,” Porthos says, without hesitation – the truth. 

Aramis’ smile is little and fragile, but it’s there. Before he’s even fully aware of it it, Porthos is at his side, kneeling down beside him and looking up at his face. He wonders what Porthos sees when he looks there – if he sees the heavy-set bags under his eyes, his face slack and unstrained. Or if he sees the hints of crows feet and laugh lines long gone and ill-visited in these two months. 

“The point is we don’t forget,” Porthos says. “You can’t forget these things. You have to learn how to process it. How to move on.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Then you learn to keep living. Even if it’s with you every day – at least there’s a next day to get to.” Porthos says, and Aramis’ heart twists up in his chest with the concrete surety in Porthos’ voice – words spoken from experience, not theory. Not for the first time, Aramis wonders who Porthos has lost. 

Aramis nods, and sighs. “I know. I only…” He breathes out. “With every passing day, I – I wonder if I’ll forget. The details. If I’ll forget him…” It’s the first time he’s acknowledged it, the first time he’s admitted to himself how deeply he misses Marsac. “His face. His voice. I—”

“You won’t,” Porthos says, quiet, voice weighted. “The people you love – you never forget them.” He breathes out. “You can’t.” 

Aramis goes quiet, his voice wobbling as he nods – knows it’s true, just needed to hear it said back to him. “And now I only…” 

“You’re not sure if this is the best?” Porthos guesses and Aramis nods. Porthos rests his hands on Aramis’ knees, a comforting, weighted presence. Porthos chews on his bottom lip for a moment, thoughtful, sorting out his words. “Before – you said you were going to leave. If the captain puts you back on active duty, will you refuse it?” 

Aramis sighs, and sags his shoulders down. “I tried to quit before, but he said he wouldn’t accept it until I was… at least more myself again.”

Porthos nods and his expression seems a little closed off. Aramis reminds himself that Porthos would be okay, without him, on his own – he’s making friends now, he’s finding his place. He asks, after a moment, “Do you want to leave the musketeers, Aramis?” 

“Would you regret it, if I did?” Aramis asks. 

And Porthos breathes out. “That shouldn’t matter.” 

Aramis tilts his head. “I’m so tired, Porthos. And it’s – it’s all too much. If I join the Church as my father wanted, perhaps I’d…”

He trails off, his frown turning downward.

“You were going crazy locked up in your room like this. Antsy. How’s the church going to be different? You’d go mad,” Porthos says. “You’d tear yourself apart.” 

“Perhaps,” Aramis agrees. “Or perhaps I could find some peace. I – this is what I’ve wanted, this is what I was meant to do, I think, and yet I—”

“So stay,” Porthos says. “You can leave later if it’s the wrong choice. But for now… just stay.”

It is the first and only time Porthos will ever ask it of Aramis. It will not be the first time that Porthos wants to ask it of him, though. But the next time he thinks to say the words, he won’t dare to speak it. 

But that is not for many years yet. 

In this moment, Aramis finds himself relaxing again, finds that he was waiting for that, waiting for that permission.

“Okay,” he whispers, and finds that he can’t even regret the decision.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His voice is flat and distant, as if he is describing something that didn’t happen to him but to another, centuries ago: “And then it was silent.”
> 
> His fingers twist up in his necklace, tugs again until the chain breaks and it flops uselessly into his hand. His fingers are white from the force of the chains looping around his knuckles, cut off from the blood. 
> 
> “And then I was alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for your patience on getting to this chapter! I was out of town and in addition to struggling to write out this chapter in a way I liked, it definitely took a little longer than I usually like to take. I've also blown through the backlog I had going with chapters, so apologies in advance if the next chapter might be a little delayed, as a result. I'm hoping to get back to the "update every 7ish days" schedule, though. 
> 
> And once again, thank you everyone for your thoughtful comments and support while writing this mammoth! I'm having a blast writing this out and I'm thrilled to know that others are enjoying it, too. Your comments give me life, ehehe. ♥
> 
>  **ETA:** JL continues to outdo herself by drawing [a beautiful drawing from one of the scenes in this chapter](http://jlsdrawings.tumblr.com/post/122011128514/im-glad-youre-alive-aramis-some-thread) and just excuse me while I die. GO LOOK AT HOW PRETTY IT IS.

The day burns bright and sunny – a pleasant day in early summer by all means. Which means, of course, that all Aramis can feel is a deep chill to his bones. He remembers the luxurious feel of stripping down layer by layer, for a beautiful woman smiling at him or for sparring in the garrison’s courtyard. Now, the idea of stripping down just makes him shiver. He knows what’s waiting out there today. There are new people in the garrison, come to earn their commission or integrate into the ranks. It’s bursting with new men, new dreams, new _replacements_ —

Aramis can’t help but smile, a brittle and untender sort of thing – wondering just how long it’ll take for every man he knows to die piece by piece. Would it matter, ultimately, to bring in more men only for them to die as if it were easy, as if it were nothing? It was easy to die but difficult to accept it. Those men out there, fresh and young, others veterans from their fields – they were sent from the king and from other regiments to fill in the loss of the men and it’s far too much for Aramis to even attempt to handle. It’s an end, a surety. It’s simple as that: their climatic defeat now in the past and now it’s time to give into politics, politics, politics –bring in new men. The mere thought of it is enough to make Aramis want to retreat to his room and never leave it again. 

He stands in the doorway to his empty, cold room and hates it – hates how lonely it looks, how lonely he feels. Hates knowing he can’t hide away in his room forever, hates that he has to go down there, greet men who are meant to replace the positions once held by lost friends. God, how the people he passes look at him now – some with judgment, some with sympathy. It’s all too much. 

Too much, but he can’t let that be the end of it. He knows what he has to do. So he draws on his coat, folds into himself, places his hat on his head and closes the door to his room behind him. His steps feel much like walking to a gallows before he steps out into the courtyard and has to blink around the sunlight. He shades his eyes and searches the courtyard, looking past faces he doesn’t recognize, faces that turn away from him – searches until he finds Porthos, leaning against one of the support posts. Aramis breathes out and moves, finding his way to Porthos’ side, hardly letting himself pause to consider it, hardly looking at anyone else. He finds him and he goes to him – no lingering, no mingling. He settles at Porthos’ side. 

“Hey,” Porthos greets, turns his head from where he’s watching two new recruits spar, demonstrating their swordsmanship. One of the men has a sloppy style but is able to hold his own, the other is too technical to react to real-time situations. 

“Hi,” Aramis says, quiet. 

Aramis doesn’t even have to say anything beyond that, doesn’t even have to breathe out for Porthos to understand. He watches as Porthos’ expression shifts and he turns more fully towards Aramis to ask, “You alright?”

“It’s to be expected,” Aramis answers, voice wooden even to his own ears. “It’s been long enough. Eventually they’ll have to get more in the ranks. Eventually they’ll…” He trails off and looks up at Porthos, helpless. He gives a bitter little laugh, self-conscious, “Forgive me. It seems I’ll always be morose from now on. I can’t even… What kind of soldier can’t even handle this?” 

Porthos chews on his lip, looks up at the sky, and then grasps Aramis’ shoulder gently, turning him away from the men fighting in the yard. He turns them so that Aramis’ back is to the crowd and he’s only looking at Porthos and the wall behind him – and, more importantly, it’s only Porthos who can see his face. Porthos lifts a hand, tips Aramis’ hat back so he can get a good look at his face, ducking his head down a little so they can look at each other. 

“Aramis,” he says, gentle, and it’s so strange the way his name sounds on Porthos’ tongue – like it is worth something, like it is meaningful. Aramis shouldn’t shiver. It’s such a warm day, and yet. 

“It’s understandable,” Aramis says, having to look away from Porthos and down at their boots. He swallows down, his voice thick when he speaks. “It isn’t as if I didn’t know this would happen. Eventually—” he cuts off, swallowing down. “… Eventually they’ll have to move on,” Aramis finally finishes. He closes his eyes. “How could it be any other way?” 

Porthos hasn’t dropped his hand from his arm. Aramis isn’t sure if he’s grateful or horrified at the sympathy. With Porthos, somehow, it never quite feels like pity – more like a promise. Perhaps there is comfort in that. 

“It’s not a matter of moving on,” Porthos says, gentle. How can he always be so gentle? Why is he always so gentle? “It’s a matter of making sure that the ones left behind make it back safe – have enough men at their side to get the job done.”

Aramis nods. He knows, of course he knows. And still—

“It’s alright,” Porthos adds, voice still devastatingly kind. “No one expects this to be easy for you.”

“No one expects anything from me, you mean,” Aramis says, almost laughs – but the sound dies in his throat before it can manifest. He opens his eyes and looks at Porthos – who still watches him. 

They fall into a small silence. Aramis can hear the sounds of life behind him – the clash of steel, the grunt of exertion, the cheers and the heckling of a supporting, teasing crowd. He was once part of that world. Even if he isn’t – even if he doesn’t think he can leave this life, even if Porthos asking him to stay still hangs heavy in his mind, he isn’t sure if he’s ever really going to belong to it all again. He doesn’t know if it could ever be his again. 

“You want to get out of here?” Porthos asks, abruptly. “Take a walk?” 

The air rushes out of Aramis in a thankful gasp. “Yes,” he says, nodding. “Yes, I’d very much like that.” 

Porthos straightens, his expression turning grim as he pats Aramis’ shoulder, touch gentle, and turns towards the garrison’s gate. They leave the courtyard, leave behind the musketeers and the new recruits. Aramis can’t meet any of their eyes, can’t even look their way. He just lets Porthos lead him out into the street and lead the way down the road and away from the garrison. There’s an ache, deep down in the pit of his stomach – feeling as if he is walking away from too much. He shouldn’t walk away. He should be stronger by now. 

Taking a walk, as it turns out, really just means making a beeline for the nearest tavern. Porthos walks in – ignoring the way the din in the tavern lulls down for one moment before it picks back up again (he ducks his head and whispers to Aramis, teasing, “I hate when that happens,” which doesn’t make Aramis want to laugh but rather cry at the injustice of it, that Porthos should not be welcome with open arms wherever he may go) – and leads Aramis to the table closest to the fireplace. He settles Aramis down in the seat so he can warm from the inside out.

“I’ll get drinks, hold tight,” Porthos says, and signals for a bottle of wine – moving to the barkeep to try to charm his way out of his running tab as it is. Aramis watches him, the way he weaves through the crowd, fluid enough, the way he grins and speaks with the barkeep, either unaware or ignoring the eyes that glance his way as he passes. It’s so strange, so different from how he knew Porthos in those first weeks – abrasive and defensive, withdrawn and protective of himself. Now he seems almost an entirely different man. This is who Porthos is – this is who Porthos is meant to be. 

Which is a shame, then, that he has to be anchored down by who Aramis truly is. There is no glib happiness now, no easy smiles and no easier laughter. He is just a broken down, worthless man. That Porthos should waste his time, even now, is a wonder to Aramis. He can hardly be the best company. He can hardly be worth it. He can hardly be worth anything. Not to Porthos, least of all. 

Porthos returns soon enough to a morose Aramis staring sadly down at the table, fingers curled against his palms against his own self-loathing. Porthos hums a little, sets the drinks down and pours a liberal amount for Aramis. Once he’s done, Aramis glances up at Porthos and finds Porthos watching him, tilting his eyebrows up in invitation as he nods at their drinks. Aramis fumbles to pick his up, not wanting to risk Porthos’ disapproval. They drink in silence for a long while, Aramis trying to focus on his breathing, trying to focus on the steady warm crackling from the fire a few feet away from him. Aramis studies Porthos’ face as he sweeps over the crowd, an automatic gesture – searching for any signs of belligerence or criminal undertones. Aramis doesn’t look up, doesn’t have to – he already feels safe enough with Porthos’ efforts. 

Which is why Porthos’ next words feel like a twisting stab: “I’m heading out tomorrow, you know.” 

“You’re doing what?” Aramis asks, throat dry as he tries to process the words. His cup nearly tumbles from his hand before he remembers to tighten his grip. 

“New orders,” Porthos clarifies. “There’s a courtier that needs escorting to Spain. We’re bringing him to border to make sure he gets there safely.”

Aramis almost asks him to repeat it again, the pounding his chest on rapid-fire. It’s suddenly incredibly difficult to breathe and he makes a soft, mournful sound – unable, unwilling to do anything but swallow down around the sudden, debilitating terror that seizes him. He sets his cup down before it shakes apart in his hand. He fists his hands on the table before he finds that too vulnerable a gesture and places them in his lap, guilty. 

“But it’s—” He isn’t sure why he can’t breathe, isn’t sure why it hurts so much but it’s— “That’ll be – you’re—” 

Porthos nods, at least looks a little apologetic. He almost reaches out to him, but stops himself. He breathes out and frowns to himself. “Maybe telling you here wasn’t the best…”

But Aramis isn’t listening. His head is still buzzing, full of wool, unable to process—

“To Spain,” Aramis says, hollow – he’d have been a choice, once, his fluency in Spanish an asset to those kinds of missions. He doesn’t mean to ask it, doesn’t mean to think it, but he’s speaking it before he can even hold it back, and his voice is a quiet and brittle thing, “Near Savoy?” 

“No,” Porthos says, quick to answer. “We’re taking another route, hooking through from the west.” 

Aramis’ shoulders relax, just slightly, but only just. He’s shaking, he knows he is – he must look terrified, he must look horrible. “Will… How many men?”

“Five.”

“Only five?” Aramis whispers, voice cracking, tries to force out his breathing into something that isn’t a fluttering, fragile little thing. He’s going to pass out. He’s going to keel over. Twenty men died in their sleep near Savoy – five men is nothing, four men and Porthos, in danger—

“Plus the courtier’s men,” Porthos answers. Porthos leans across the table and grasps his shoulders, holds him steady. “Aramis,” he says, calm and quiet. “It’s just for an escort. We’ll be fine. We’ll come back.” 

Savoy was just a training exercise. And twenty men never came home again as a result. 

Aramis stares at him, can’t even speak. He’d have been the choice once. He _was_ the choice once – he was down there, down near Savoy. And then they all died and he lost Marsac forever. And now Porthos goes there, back into Hell, far away and Aramis can’t even do anything – couldn’t do anything to help him, to protect him, to keep him.

He grasps Porthos’ arms and his breathing is ragged, his eyes wide. “Porthos—”

“It’s only to the border,” Porthos whispers. “His men will meet us there and complete his journey there. There’s nothing to fear.”

“There’s—”

“Nothing will happen to us,” Porthos reassures, grasps his shoulders tight. Aramis’ hold on him is white-knuckled and painful and yet he makes no sign of that pain, just stares at Aramis, holds his gaze even as Aramis feels he’ll collapse into himself, disappear from the inside out. It’s too much. It’s too much. 

“You have to come back,” Aramis says, and then recoils – he has no right to ask it, he has no right and he’s—

“I will,” Porthos answers. He stands, pulls Aramis to his feet and tugs him along through the back door to the tavern. They leave their wine behind and it’ll be snatched up by another patron before they can return, but being outside is helpful – Aramis presses against the wall and heaves in steadying, shaky breath, flushes with embarrassment over his display and reaction. The sun beats on his face, some semblance of warmth even as his blood runs cold. He struggles to breathe, stares at Porthos as if doing that long enough will convince Porthos to _stay_. 

Porthos rubs his shoulders and his back, and Aramis can’t remember himself enough to tell him to stop, and he leans forward and presses his forehead to Porthos’ shoulder, just leans against him and tries to sap out that strength enough for him to keep breathing. Porthos’ hands are heavy on his back, stroking soothingly. It’s almost reassuring. It’s almost enough. 

He melts into Porthos. He’s surrounded around Porthos and he can smell the crisp scent of leather with his nose pressed against his pauldron, still so new and unscarred. 

“Why would – how could the captain—” The words flub from his mouth, unable to articulate the thought – why would the captain send someone and not him? The answer is obvious. But, why would the captain send Porthos? Why would the captain take Porthos away—

“I volunteered,” Porthos interrupts, gentle and quiet, but it roars in Aramis’ ears and he shoots his face up to stare at Porthos in bewilderment. Porthos isn’t apologetic, just calm, as he says, “I insisted.” 

“Why – why would you do that?” Aramis asks, the panic squeezing around his insides, making it difficult to breathe, making it difficult to do anything at all. He draws away from Porthos, staring up at him. 

Porthos sighs out, touches at his arms, then his back – trying to be soothing but Aramis hardly reacts to it, can hardly breathe around the constricting, painful ache deep inside of him. So many, so many, Marsac and all his friends, and now Porthos—

“Because I’ll come back,” he answers as if it is easy. “And this way, I’m the first to volunteer – first to show I’m not afraid. I couldn’t do anything before. ”

Aramis frowns, his brow furrowing. “It wasn’t your job to do anything before.” 

“And now they’ll have no reason to be afraid. They’ll have no reason to think I’m afraid.” 

A spark of anger twists up inside of Aramis and he frowns further. “Is this – some kind of _pride_ thing for you?” He’s trying to breathe, stares up at Porthos and shakes his head. “Porthos, it’s not – no one said you had to do this. You don’t – this isn’t—”

“I have to do this,” Porthos says. 

“You don’t,” Aramis answers. “You really don’t.” 

“If I don’t, no one else will,” Porthos answers, which isn’t necessarily true and yet, “Who would want to volunteer for this? The musketeers are meant to be brave. We’re meant to face down everything.” 

Aramis shivers, clenches his eyes shut, terrified still of the idea of heading south. A coward, then. He’s a coward, and Porthos is trying to prove something. He grips Porthos’ arms, bites at his lip and shakes his head. 

“If you don’t come back…” 

“I can take care of myself,” Porthos says. “Always have. Always will.” 

Aramis almost protests – opens his mouth, looks up at Porthos and gets a good look at his face, and shuts his mouth again. He can’t breathe. 

Porthos sighs out, touches at his shoulders and squeezes. “I’m coming back.” He offers him a smile, light and gentle. “Just trust me, okay?” 

Aramis breathes out shakily, can’t settle down, can’t believe it. He tries to.

“You’re an idiot,” he says, quiet, and wants to take the word back as soon as he says it – doesn’t want to insult Porthos, not if this is the last he’ll see of him, not when he’s seen a world insult his very existence. But Porthos takes no offense, merely huffs out a small breath. 

Aramis shouldn’t be protected. He should be protected Porthos. He should be going with him. He should be making Porthos stay. He should be making sure Porthos will return, with his own hands, his own skills—

“I’ll come back,” Porthos says again, voice quiet. “It isn’t a matter of pride. Not really.” 

“I know,” Aramis says, miserable. He wonders which of the men training in the garrison now will be Porthos’ replacement, if he dies. 

He tries not to think about it, his shoulders tense.

“I’ll come back,” Porthos says again. 

 

-

 

The days spent with Porthos gone from the garrison are a lesson in anxiety and fear for Aramis. He doesn’t even try to sleep – there’s no way that he’ll be able to banish nightmares, be able to rest. And how strange it is, to realize that he hasn’t been able to sleep soundly without Porthos nearby. It’ll be days yet before Porthos is even finished with his mission and yet Aramis finds himself looking at the gate every time he passes it by – waiting for him. Waiting for him to return. 

Strange, too, to be amongst men he once knew, many men he doesn’t know, and not having Porthos’ reassuring presence hovering nearby. He once flocked around the courtyard, speaking with so many, friendly and reassuring – it used to be easy, second-nature. Now, without Porthos, he finds himself spending the afternoons alone, sitting at the bench and staring down at the table and waiting for – something. He finds his thoughts wandering, finds himself fearing. 

If he doesn’t come back, if he doesn’t—

He closes his eyes and forces himself to breathe. Porthos said to trust him. Porthos promised to come back. It isn’t a promise he can give, it isn’t a vow any soldier can truly give – and yet it resounds in his mind whenever his thoughts begin to double into each other, build up into something dark and painful – _he promised he’d come back._

He _will_ come back. He has to believe that. He has to keep repeating it until he believes it. 

The captain hovers as much as he can – Aramis catches him out of the corner of his eye some days, just watching him, checking in on him. It is both a reassurance and a pathetic reminder of his own inabilities. He thinks he’s getting better. He thought he was getting better.

Every messenger that trots through the gate sends Aramis’ heart into unsteady palpitations, certain that, this time, it is a message of death, a message of defeat. A message proclaiming Porthos and the others dead. 

He can’t sit idle. He knows that. He stands – he works, he buys supplies for Serge, he helps reload guns for practice drills for the new recruits, he pats down the horses after a long day. He goes back to church. He sits in the dark or in the light, in the confessional or the pews – he sits and he prays, as much as he can, as much as he is able. He isn’t sure if he can, isn’t sure if he should – a sinner, a man beaten down, but – but his God is one of love, his God wouldn’t—

Surely his God wouldn’t take Porthos away. Not like this. Not after all of this. 

But then, he never would have thought Marsac would walk away, either. He never thought he’d survive a slaughter his twenty friends never woke up from. His hands shake in his lap. Surely his God wouldn’t—

It’s difficult to think. He tries to keep himself occupied, but he’s exhausted and his appetite evaporates with each passing day. He finds it difficult to speak to the others, difficult to be pleasant. But he made a promise, and he has to keep it – has to get better, has to keep going. 

Porthos told him to stay. But if Porthos can’t stay, if Porthos ends up—

He can’t think like this. 

And when, days later, well over a week later, he looks up and finds the other musketeers returning from their trip to the south, Aramis almost shakes apart – searching out Porthos, looking for Porthos and not seeing him. Fear grips his heart, he takes a step forward—

And there he is. Coming towards him, grinning, blazing in the sunlight – not a scratch on him, nothing to fear. Safe and well. Returned. 

Aramis can’t even question it. Can’t even stop to think about it before he’s going to Porthos and wrapping his arms around his neck and squeezing, holding him close. Out in the open, out in the sunlight, it doesn’t matter – it doesn’t matter. 

“You’re back,” Aramis whispers, holding him tight. “You came back.”

A moment later, he’s swept up in Porthos’ hug – arms heavy and firm around him, holding him close, nearly lifting him up from the ground with the force of the hold.

“I told you I would.” 

 

-

 

“Porthos,” Aramis says a few days later, looking up at Porthos – who sits obediently at the table, frowning over a book as if it is the most interesting thing in the world. Porthos looks up and Aramis says as a sigh, “I’m going to go mad if I stay here.” 

Porthos studies his face and Aramis waits, isn’t sure why he’s holding his breath. He feels stir-crazy. He feels as if he will suffocate if he stays in this stifling room. Porthos has come and gone from the border. Men are training and integrating into the ranks. And Aramis spends his days sitting still, doing little, menial tasks. He is going insane with it. It is not enough anymore. 

He rises up, searches for his boots. He pulls them on and looks at Porthos expectantly. 

“Where do you want to go?” Porthos asks, closing the book, his hand lingering on the cover. He pulls on his coat after standing from his chair, moving towards Aramis’ side. 

“Just to walk, perhaps,” Aramis says, and his lips quirk into something that might have been a smile once. “Let’s see where the night takes us.” 

Porthos accompanies him and together they walk out into the Paris night. Aramis sighs out, sways a little through the emptying streets of Paris. He breathes in, he blinks his eyes open, he tries to come back to life again. He feels too much like something left behind, something that shouldn’t be here. He itches for something, misses things that won’t return. And yet each step is easier than it was a month ago, weeks ago, even days ago. 

He turns his head and looks at Porthos, who watches him steadily. He wonders just how long Porthos has been watching him. 

The air is undeniably of summer now. The moon hangs low in the sky and he can hear the sounds of Paris all around them – and yet he feels a world apart. 

He looks back at Porthos. “It’s a beautiful night, don’t you think?” 

He sees something in Porthos’ throat constrict, watches him step up to his side and touch at his elbow, once, a fleeting touch but a touch all the same. Somehow that anchors him better than anything else. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I do.” 

They wander. But perhaps they don’t wander as much as Aramis thinks – perhaps there was something inside of him that needed this, that wanted this, that wished for him to feel this aching, gnawing wound again: because when he looks up again and takes in his surroundings, they’re in the graveyard – the freshly wooden twenty crosses marking where each fallen friend had once been. He stops cold and his blood freezes in his veins. 

Porthos shifts beside him, touches his elbow again – in a sign of sympathy or in an attempt to lead him away, Aramis doesn’t know. He jerks his arm away before he can find out and takes a step towards those graves. 

The air seems to just seep out of him. He is an airless, boneless ghost. He is nothing. He should be lying in the ground with them. He curls into himself, arms wrapped around his chest, and he takes in short, shaking breaths. He starts to pray, because what else can he do, and yet he has no right to even do that – old wounds throb and he feels as if his hands are soaked in blood. 

An irony, then, to think he could be getting better.

He doesn’t realize, fully, when it was he came to be sitting in the dirt – and yet when he blinks his eyes open, he finds that’s where he is, tears threatening to breech his already fraying controls. Porthos is there beside him and he, at least, is looking at him. Not with pity. With that quiet understanding that Aramis despises, because Porthos _doesn’t_ know and can’t know. That he can, that he likely does – that is far worse than Aramis can handle. 

Porthos is speaking to him, but Aramis doesn’t hear it. He’s shaking all over. 

“The worst part,” Aramis says, and his voice is broken and wooden and unfeeling. He is unfeeling. He does not deserve this. “The worst part,” he says again, “wasn’t the dead. It was the dying. They screamed. They asked for mercy. They asked _why_.” 

He stares at their graves – and wonders the same. Why is it that he still lives when they all perished. What good was it to spare his life when his life was not worth it. Aramis touches at the chain hanging around his neck and gropes at it blindly, strings it around his fingers and tugs over and over again, fiddling, searching. Perhaps he’ll choke. Perhaps something, finally, will put him out of his misery. The air is cold, it’s threatening snow – and he can’t tear his eyes from the crosses. 

His pulse is jumping. He thinks Porthos is speaking, calling to him – but he isn’t listening. There was the kindling of a fire inside of him and now it extinguishes with the force of his cold blood. He is exhausted. He is not worth this. He is not worth Porthos’ compassion. He is not worth this life. 

His voice is flat and distant, as if he is describing something that didn’t happen to him but to another, centuries ago: “And then it was silent.”

His fingers twist up in his necklace, tugs again until the chain breaks and it flops uselessly into his hand. His fingers are white from the force of the chains looping around his knuckles, cut off from the blood. 

“And then I was alone.” 

Porthos’ hands are on his, suddenly, unthreading the chain from his fingers. He rubs at his knuckles a little, seeping blood back into his veins, making him shiver. He wants to pull his hand back and yet he can’t manage it, and so he leaves it there, unresponsive, in Porthos’ warm hands. So large and so warm. 

Porthos is kneeled down in the dirt, just like him, and that is the painful part, that is the worst part – that Porthos must stoop down to Aramis’ level. Porthos does not deserve this. 

“I used to think there was honor in dying on the battlefield,” Aramis tells their hands because he cannot bear to look up at Porthos. He feels his mouth twist into a grimace that might have tried to be a smile. He looks at the twenty crosses in the mounds of graves, still too fresh to have grass growing over them fully, and his throat feels raw. “I used to think – there was honor in it. But we all die the same.” 

Porthos says something, low and rumbling, and Aramis finally dares to look up at him – Porthos’ expression is completely different. He looks stricken. But he also looks _angry_ and it hits him with such force that he nearly recoils, nearly collapses into himself and ceases to exist, because he can weather so many things and yet the idea of Porthos’ anger is enough to make him want to blow away into the breeze, forgotten wisp of what used to be a man. 

“We don’t,” Porthos says with such fierceness. 

Aramis shakes his head, somehow stubborn, somehow clinging to this even in the face of Porthos’ anger. “We do. We all die alone. We all die.” 

“ _No_ ,” Porthos hisses out and he looks so stricken in that moment, so devastated. Where before Porthos has only been sure and steady, now he looks as if he’s about to shake apart. “No – no. We don’t. We don’t die alone.” 

“Every man in Savoy died alone,” Aramis says, and thinks of those men dying side-by-side and worlds apart. He thinks of Marsac leaving him behind. He wonders if he’s dead. He wonders if this is Hell. He wonders if it would be better to be in Hell than to be haunted by all his dead friends, by Marsac’s back to him, by the knowledge that he is not the same and he is broken apart and he is not who he used to be and not worth knowing or saving. He wonders if Hell is worse than knowing that he was the one who should not have survived. 

“You’re wrong,” Porthos says, and it’s so strange to see him breaking apart and not knowing the reason for it – there’s something so expressive about Porthos. It’s easy to read him. He is thinking of someone – someone he lost. Aramis is reopening an old wound. There is something inherently horrible about seeing that look on Porthos’ face – Aramis feels instantly guilty, instantly wants to take back his words. There is a tension in Porthos’ face – and it’s so strange to see a man communicate so fully with just his eyes, with just the slant of his brow. So many glares and grimaces, and yet he is best known to Aramis through his smiles. He remembers the stand-offish behavior of before, but he also remembers how easily Porthos’ face had bloomed into his laugh. If ever there was a man who was made to laugh and smile, it is Porthos. 

Such a shame, then, that he must be burdened with Aramis. 

“Forgive me,” he says faintly, and does not ask for clarification. “I hadn’t meant to upset you.” 

Porthos’ mouth twists up. He grips Aramis by his elbows and hauls him to his feet. 

The journey back to the garrison is short but feels far longer. Aramis isn’t sure of his feet, isn’t sure of anything – just lets Porthos anchor him and guide him. He can feel agitation rolling off of Porthos in waves and he feels a flush of shame deep inside of him. A strange feeling, really – he never used to feel shame for anything, much less this. 

It isn’t until Porthos shuts the door behind him and pushes Aramis onto his bed, that Aramis remembers that he should be breathing. It rushes out of him, fragile and crisp. He flinches when Porthos kneels before him, works at unfolding his boots from his shins, tugs them off. 

“Don’t,” he whispers out, desperately. Tries to move away from the image of Porthos kneeling before him – too charged, too much. “You’re not my servant.” 

“Stop thinking you don’t deserve kindness,” Porthos mutters, but does rise up and back away from him. 

“I deserve nothing,” Aramis says, and he sighs out – long and weary. He thinks it would have been better if he had died out in those woods. 

Porthos grunts a little and drops his boots near the end of his bed. He turns to look at Aramis – and it’s clear he’s still angry, although there is a kind of resigned calmness to him now, and his eyes are not unkind. 

“You’ve been through a lot,” Porthos says, quiet, trying to temper down his anger. “But you deserve kindness, just like anyone else.” 

“I don’t,” Aramis insists immediately. “I’ve never had any delusions of what I’m worth – and I certainly don’t need your pity in light of everything.” 

“You think it’s pity?” Porthos asks, voice very quiet and very thin. 

“How could it not be?”

“You’ve been through a lot,” Porthos says, slow and uncertain.

“I have problems that come far before my trip to Savoy,” Aramis mutters, withdrawing, his words sound snappish even to his own ears. 

Porthos shakes his head, stepping to him. “My being here has nothing to do with—”

“It has _everything_ to do with Savoy,” Aramis mutters. “Even now, even now I’m no better than I was even the day after it all happened! I’m still – this. And why else would you stay? Why else would you put up with me if it weren’t pity or guilt over what happened? Why the hell would you go to the south if it wasn’t for some kind of pity, some kind of need for glory?” 

“You’re not defined by what happened to you,” Porthos says, fiercely. “You’re not what’s happened or where you came from, you’re—”

“Stop,” Aramis interrupts, presses his hands to his face and heaves a heavy sigh. “Just stop.” He swallows hard against the bile rising in his throat. “I’m sorry,” he breathes out. “God, I’m sorry.” 

There’s guilt lying thick in Porthos’ words when he says, “You’ve done nothing wrong.” 

Aramis’ voice trembles and he shakes his head. “How am I meant to move on? How can I be anything but _this_? How can – how can I be anything but a memory of that forest?” 

“I told you before,” Porthos says. “You have to live. Just – be who you are.”

“How,” Aramis hisses out. “What if what I am is just – this? Useless and broken and— How can I be as I was? ” 

“As you are,” Porthos corrects.

“And if I’m this?” Aramis asks, desperately. “If this is who I _am_ now? Some kind of – whatever I’ve become?” 

“Then just – be what you want to be,” Porthos says, his voice thick and struggling through the words, uncertain what to say and knowing it. Aramis knows it, too. 

Aramis shakes his head. “I should have just—”

“Don’t say it,” Porthos says, stern, interrupting the words. Aramis almost relaxes, almost finds comfort in Porthos’ protectiveness. But still, what he says next jags through Aramis like a crooked blade: “Do you think that they’d want you to be like this?” 

“How – ” It is an innocent enough question, and yet something flares up inside of Aramis – a surge of white-hot anger to replace the guilt. At least it’s something new to feel. There is a moment when Aramis can’t properly speak around that sudden fury. He stares at Porthos, and shakes all over. “How dare you.” 

Porthos doesn’t back down, doesn’t relent – just continues to look at him. He’s still angry, but he looks unbearably sad, too. Resigned. As if he’s seen this all before. He says, his weary-thin, “You think that acting like this does any of their sacrifices justice?” 

“How dare you,” Aramis repeats, voice shaking, hands fisting up. “What sacrifice? They died on the ground! They died in their sleep! There was no great battle, no great sacrifice for the greater good! They were _slaughtered_!” He rises from where he’s sitting and stomps towards Porthos. 

Porthos meets him head-on, not backing down, and Aramis tries to size him up when Porthos is large and purposefully taking up space, glaring at him in retaliation. 

Aramis can hardly speak around his anger and so he spits out, “I’m sure they’d much rather be alive than have to worry about how I live now! They _should_ be alive!” 

“How is wanting to be dead with them doing them any favors? Live because they can’t!” Porthos shouts back, and that same tightening to his jaw returns as in the graveyard, that same refusal to accept that all die the same. 

“I can’t!” Aramis shouts back, and it feels strange to do so – feels strange to do something other than float around and breathe out. His voice cracks through the force of his anger. Even just this is enough to make his throat feel raw. He swallows down, thick and uncertain, and his hands are shaking so terribly. “How can I – how can I when I don’t deserve to live, not after that! Not after everything that happened!” 

“Why the fuck not?” Porthos shouts and he takes up so much space and he’s so angry and yet Aramis can’t even stop to feel any fear or any rebuttal. He lives inside of this anger, clings to it, because that surety is all he’s had for so long now. Porthos continues, “Why should you lie down and die after them? What the fuck good would that do anyone or you?” 

“It doesn’t matter what I want!” Aramis snaps out. 

And it’s so strange, so very strange, to see Porthos so angry – Porthos, who surged with anger in those first weeks but never shouted like this. His anger then was different – a defense, a surety that the world was a horrible place. Now, it is frustration, it is pain. It is everything Porthos in those first weeks never wanted another to see. Now, he is broken open, that anger and that rage pouring out. Porthos, who’s faced down so much hardship, so much rejection and never said a word, never lifted a fist. Porthos, who’s watched Aramis wither away and always stood by him. And now, and now – Aramis feels he’ll shake apart just from Porthos’ words. 

Porthos’ voice is thick, almost as loud as a roar even when he isn’t shouting. “You think this is what _they_ want?” 

Twin surges of anger and guilt flare in his gut: anger that Porthos would dare to say such a thing to him – when he was not there, when he didn’t _understand_ , and guilt for knowing that he is shaming their memory. Porthos is right – he is shaming them. He is weak. He is pathetic. He is nothing. Still, he is haunted with Marsac leaving him to die among the bodies of his brothers. Still, he is haunted. Still, he cannot recover. Guilt that he should feel that. Guilt that he should have stumbled away from his brothers, their blood not yet cold – and wishing he had joined them.

“They’d likely much rather be alive.” He flares up, his anger blowing in. “They’d – it’d have been much better if it’d been my life for theirs! You weren’t there! You don’t know what I’m feeling! You didn’t know _them!_ ” 

This is the only time in his whole life that he’s ever shouted like this, that he’s ever felt so uncontrollably angry. There have been moments, there have been glimmers – he remembers the way his voice cracked as he begged Isabelle’s father to tell him where she’d gone, he remembers shouting in the heat of battle. But that’s different from now, different from feeling every little frayed edge inside of him flare to life to defend dead men – defend them against a man who looks at him now like he is worth something. When, in the end, he is worth nothing. He is so angry – and he doesn’t know what to do with it, and so just drowns in it. Just gives in to it. 

Porthos seems just as angry, his shoulders tensed up as he says, “No, but I—”

“You don’t know anything of loss! You can’t possibly know—”

“I don’t know about this, not this,” Porthos interrupts, tight-lipped. “But don’t you dare tell me I don’t know what it is to lose someone.” 

Aramis should feel ashamed, should shrink back into himself at the words. But he can’t even breathe, can’t even do anything but convince him – demonstrate to him. _He shouldn’t be here._

“You think I don’t know what you’re feeling?” Porthos says, his voice just as forceful – and Aramis can’t think to back down, can’t think to be afraid in the face of his own fury. Porthos continues, “That feeling that you shouldn’t keep going – that there’s no point to it? That there’s nothing there and you – you should have been the one to go? That it isn’t _fair_? You think I don’t know that?” 

“You don’t know what it is to lose a family!” He doesn’t know the words he’s saying, doesn’t know if he’s speaking of Savoy or the woman he loves, all the people he’s lost along the way. Isabelle, Marsac—

Its’ all too much. It’s all boiled over. It’s all been pressed down inside of him for too long – and now it comes pouring out. 

“Fuck you,” Porthos hisses out, suddenly very quiet and very deadly, all wrath – blazing with it, shaking just as badly as Aramis is. That quiet fury is more terrifying than any shouting could ever be. Aramis is sure, then, that this is the moment – this is the moment he loses Porthos forever. “You don’t know where the fuck I come from.” 

“So enlighten me!” Aramis shouts, hysteric now and knowing that he is, knowing that he is losing everything and deserves to do so. “Tell me, then, Porthos – did you see twenty men die right before your eyes? Did you see someone leave you behind – twice over? Did you – did you become a soldier because you lost your one chance at a happy life? _Tell me._ ” 

“You don’t—”

“Go on, tell me!” Aramis interrupts, hates that he is, but unable to stop now – babbling, breathing heavily, unable to find control again and shaking apart at the seams. He’s held it all in for so long now he doesn’t know what to do. 

Porthos swells up, suddenly, marches to the door and flings it open. Aramis holds his breath, too saturated in his own anger to want to get him to stay. This is it. This is the moment when he pushes too hard – and loses Porthos. This is the moment, like so many moments before, when it’s only proven how impossible Aramis is to care for. This is the moment. Oh, in the end, everyone leaves. This is the moment.

He’ll lose this, every time.

Porthos stands in the doorway, hand fisted around the handle. His shoulders are tensed up, the anger rolls off of him. This is the moment. 

But Porthos thinks better of it, slams the door shut and rounds on him. Aramis doesn’t try to back down or away, too stunned that he should come back to him this forcefully. Porthos’ hands fist into Aramis’ shirt and he’s being slammed up against the wall. Aramis can’t think to be afraid, too busy baring his teeth in a weak snarl, too busy trying to breathe when his feet leave the ground under the force of Porthos’ strength. They meet eye to eye. 

Porthos is so blazing in his fury, all strength even in his restraint. He’s beautiful – the thought comes to Aramis unguarded and unbidden, and Aramis hisses out at being pinned down like this. Even in the clouded grit of his anger, he can appreciate the way his hands brush at the edge of his throat. Perhaps he’ll be killed. Perhaps that will be the end of it.

Porthos hisses out, “I _know_ loss.” 

Aramis hiccups something between a gasp and a sob, but no tears come, only a grimace. Anger. He drowns in it – the first time he’s felt something so burning in so long, curling up inside of him and consuming him. He clings to it. He thrashes in Porthos’ hold but it means nothing – Porthos’ hold stays steady. 

Aramis stares Porthos and says, as calm as he can manage, his words colored with his anger, “Just admit it. I should have died with them.” 

“ _No._ ” The hand on his throat flexes, presses to him and then relaxes before Aramis can choke. 

Aramis whispers out, harsh, “Everyone would be better off that way.” 

“You think I want to see you like this?” Porthos shouts out, hysteric. 

Aramis squirms, tries to get free even as he covets the feel of that palm pressed to his throat, the feel of Porthos so sure and so strong against him. It’d be so easy for Porthos to brush his hand up, so easy for him to choke him. He envies that strength – how Porthos can face down so much and never waver in who he is.

“I am not your responsibility! I don’t need your protection – I never asked you to do this!” 

Porthos shudders, anger and pain, and Aramis almost apologizes – his fierce need to defend Porthos piercing through even his own anger. But it does little and does nothing, and Porthos’ hold on him does not slacken even as breathing comes less easy. 

Porthos stares him down and Aramis meets his gaze. They hold it like that, steady and angry, for a long moment. And then Porthos breathes out, harsh and unrestrained. He sets Aramis back down but stays, keeps him crowded up against the wall. 

“This isn’t what you want,” he says, steady and calm. “You want me to tell you you’re right. That you should be dead.” 

Aramis flares up, makes a soft, pained sound. He looks at him – knows he’s looking at him hopefully and can’t even be disgusted with himself, can’t even say how weak he is. 

“And I’m not going to tell you that.” 

“Why do you even care?” Aramis whispers out, his throat strained now. “Why haven’t you left yet?”

Like everyone else, like all before—

“Because you _need_ me—” Porthos stumbles around the words, his eyes tight. “I – need you to need me.”

“What?” Aramis asks, his anger forgotten in a moment of confusion, his throat closing up as he looks at Porthos.

It’s such a sudden shift – from white-hot, shouting anger to this. He feels jarred to move so suddenly from one point to another. 

Porthos struggles for a moment, grapples with the words – teeters on the edge of withdrawing or pushing through. He sighs out, grits his teeth. Something seems to seep out of him and he looks at Aramis for a long moment, debates. And then he seems to know what he’ll say, seems to melt into Aramis’ space.

He says, “Where I come from – grew up, it wasn’t a good place. I can’t call it home. I left it as soon as I could.” 

Aramis stares at him in confusion still, trying desperately to cling to his anger – for something to feel – and ends up sinking into Porthos’ words. His breathing is ragged and he feels as if he might fall over if not for the way Porthos crowds in against him, keeps him pressed up against that wall. He nods a little, just barely – a sign for Porthos to continue. 

“I never felt like I belonged there,” Porthos continues, cautious – his words still thick in his anger, in his wrath. But he pulls it back, enough so that all Aramis can hear is a tired, quiet man, struggling to speak. “Maybe I don’t really belong here, either. Maybe I’ll never belong anywhere. But back there, it – it was about taking what you wanted and making sure you were the one to survive, on your own.” 

_I can take care of myself,_ Porthos told him before leaving for the south. _Always have and always will._

Aramis isn’t quite sure when he starts doing it, but he lifts his hand, touches at Porthos’ shoulder, the side of his neck, curls his fingers to touch at the bumps of Porthos’ spine at his neck – holds tight to it, leans against him and just holds tight. Porthos doesn’t protest it, just ducks his head a little as he breathes out – already far calmer than he was only a moment ago. There is a tension to his eyes, to his shoulders, an expectation – waiting for Aramis to interrupt, to recoil, to hate him. Waiting. 

“It was about not needing anyone. Things like that,” he says, voice paper-thin and so very quiet. 

Aramis nods, isn’t sure what he’s nodding to – can’t imagine where he’s from, has been able to guess easily enough it was no noble family, it was somewhere near Paris or in Paris. But then, there were whispers amongst the regiment about Porthos’ potential criminal background – he remembers those, he remembers ignoring those. He remembers wanting to know about Porthos, everything about Porthos—

“I had friends,” Porthos continues. He frowns. “My point is – I… I thought they—”

He cuts himself off, giving Aramis a helpless look. “Go on,” Aramis whispers, finds himself breathless. “Tell me.”

“I thought they needed me. Turns out they didn’t. Turns out I needed them more than they needed or wanted me,” Porthos says and his voice is far away, purposefully impassive, withdrawn. Aramis’ hand flexes on the back of Porthos’ neck, feeling a surge of anger piercing through him thinking about these nameless friends, these people who would leave Porthos behind—

“Porthos,” he says, quiet. 

“You, though, I don’t know… It was the first time I felt welcomed someplace, even if I didn’t trust it. You stuck with it. And now… maybe you need me. No one’s ever needed me before. No one’s ever really wanted me, either. But you do. And maybe I need that. To be needed.”

Aramis breathes out, shaky, frowning – still feeling that residual anger, at Porthos and all those who have ever hurt Porthos. “Just that? You just want to be needed?” 

“No,” Porthos admits. “Not just that.” 

Aramis hiccups again, something like a strangled laugh. “Why do you even care?” 

“Because you’re my _friend_ ,” Porthos snaps, long-suffering, but it sounds almost an insult before his words immediately soften, “And you’re the only one I’ve got.” 

And with that, so suddenly, so fully, the fight bleeds out of Aramis. He feels cold all over and his shoulders sag. 

He laughs again, not a happy sound. “Oh,” he says. Processes the words, stumbles over the thought of it – the idea of Porthos seeing him as a friend, as someone worthwhile. He breathes out. His other hand comes up to anchor itself against Porthos’ neck, holding tight to him. “It’s a shame that your only friend should be a man like me.” 

He feels cold. Chilled to the bone. The fight is gone from him and he just ducks his head. 

“Oh,” he says again. 

And Porthos steps into his space – quieter now, slower, far more calm. He touches his elbows, as if thinking Aramis will wrench from the hold. Then drops them down to touch at his waist, the touch light enough that it almost tickles. 

“I’m your friend,” Porthos says, more confidently this time, gentler. “And I’d miss you if you were gone.” 

Aramis hiccups a soft, broken laugh. “Damn it.” 

“Every day,” Porthos continues, his voice so soft and tentative, as if realizing the thoughts himself for the first time – as if afraid Aramis will reject them, pull away, recoil from Porthos’ words. “I’d think about you every day.” 

Aramis shakes his head, disbelieving. He slumps into himself, sags forward, presses his forehead to Porthos’ shoulder because it’s there and because he can’t stand the idea of looking at him now. Porthos doesn’t move, just lets him stay there. Aramis shifts, arms around his neck, holding tight to him as he tries to steady his breathing. 

“Remember what I said before? I thought you’d died,” Porthos says, after a moment. “I don’t know. I didn’t really know you. Maybe I still don’t really know you, just a part of you. But I’d have been sorry to miss the chance.” 

“What,” Aramis says, laughing now – hysterically, softly, if only to press down the unrestrained desire to _sob_. _What the hell._ “How… I don’t –”

“I’d have missed you,” Porthos says again. “And you know what? I’m glad that you didn’t die. I’m glad you’re alive now. Even if you’re going through Hell, at least you’re here.”

Aramis hiccups. 

Porthos looks up at the ceiling and his voice goes very quiet, very wobbly, “It’s selfish to want someone to stay even if they’re in Hell, isn’t it?”

“You’re not,” Aramis hiccups, clings, refuses to let anyone insult Porthos – including Porthos himself. “Don’t…” 

Porthos curls his arms around him, too, holding him close and hugging him, hands splayed across his back. Aramis breathes out shakily and presses his face against Porthos’ neck. A hand lifts and touches the back of his head, tentative at first and then more present, fingers sliding against his shorn hair. 

“I’m glad you’re alive, Aramis.” 

And it’s the strangest thing to hear – he knows it to be true. Knows the captain’s relief, knows that, despite the hardships in the regiment, his fellow musketeers are glad to see him alive, as well. And Porthos—

It is the first time, though, that Aramis can almost believe it. Can almost believe that someone should be happy to have him here. 

And the thought proves too much, too much and he’s seizing up, his breath hitching – and then he _sobs_ , for the first time since after Savoy, since after watching Marsac walk away without a single goodbye, since after watching his friends laid to rest beneath the earth, since after finding each day a dragging burn through Hell even with Porthos’ comforting presence—

It is the first time he’s cried since losing Isabelle and the baby. And it rips him apart. His entire body shudders and he takes in heaving, gasping breaths as he sobs hard into Porthos’ neck, clinging for all he’s worth, slumping against him. Porthos does not waver – he holds him still, holds him close. Ducks his head so that Aramis can feel the ghost of his breath against the shell of his ear and Aramis shudders through his sobs, clings to the only warm body left in this world that cares about him even a little. 

“I’m – sorry,” Aramis hiccups through his sobs, takes in heaving, shuddering breaths and tries to stop, tries to protest. 

“It’s alright,” Porthos whispers out, quiet, his words lost in Aramis’ hair, lips close to the scar at his temple. “Cry if you need it.” 

It’s too much, it’s always been too much – Aramis can count the number of times he’s truly cried on one hand and now, now it feels too much, too much like acceptance and sympathy he doesn’t deserve. And yet he can’t pull away, can’t back away, can’t breathe. 

“You’ve been through more than most men experience in their entire lifetime,” Porthos whispers out, words soothing and comforting even as Aramis falls apart. “You made it through. I’ve got you now.” 

Aramis slumps against him, sobbing out weakly and trying to wipe at his ears – but Porthos keeps whispering to him, even as the words themselves fade away and all that’s left is the comforting murmur of Porthos’ voice against his ear. Aramis lets him, lets himself feel that, lets himself need that. He leans against him – lets himself need, lets himself be needed. 

Eventually, so far from then, so far down into the night, the tears fade and he’s left hiccupping and gasping against Porthos’ neck. 

“Come on,” Porthos says, sounding weary, and guides him along, picks him up effortlessly. “Lie down.” 

With the fight gone from Porthos now, they both sag into the other. Aramis falls to the bed without protest, curls up into himself. Porthos reaches out and presses his hand to the center of his back and holds it there. 

Aramis closes his eyes, tries to steady his breathing. The fight gone from him, he just shuts down. He clenches his eyes shut, curls into himself, tries to fight against the watery view in his mind, the roiling, protesting clench of his stomach. 

“Are you going to throw up?” Porthos asks, the hand flexing across his spine. The concern is thick in his voice and now that Aramis knows to listen for it, it’s all he can hear. What a burden he must be. 

_The only friend I’ve got._

How strange to think it. 

Aramis shakes his head. He steadies his breathing. With his eyes closed like this, with the hand pressed to his back like this, he can almost imagine that it isn’t Porthos, but—

_—stop it._

He opens his eyes and rolls onto his back, looks up at Porthos in what he knows must look terribly pathetic, terribly unjust and ridiculous. He feels laid bare, thrown asunder and torn apart. He should feel more fearful, feel some kind of shame – and yet he just looks up at Porthos and begs, begs to himself that he won’t leave. 

This time, don’t leave. 

Porthos reaches out, curls his hand under his chin and raises his head a little, looking at him. The touch his cool and Aramis shivers. He allows Porthos to do as he pleases, as he wishes – pliant and surrendering. There’s no more reason to fight. 

“I was uncharitable,” Aramis says after a long moment, feels the coarse touch of Porthos’ thumb against his chin. “To say you don’t know loss.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Porthos mutters.

“No,” Aramis says, and at least in this he can still be stubborn. “It’s – cruel. All this time you’ve been here, I’ve never seen you send a letter or receive one. You’ve… clearly there’s a lot that was left behind.” 

Porthos’ face twists up into something unpleasant, his lips thinning out. He’s silent for a long moment, withdrawing his hand from Aramis. Aramis mourns its loss. 

Porthos looks away and says, “Even if there was someone to write to, I wouldn’t.” Aramis is about to ask when Porthos clarifies, quietly, “I couldn’t.” 

Porthos’ brow furrows as he looks down at his hands. Aramis sits up a little, studying him.

Porthos heaves a breath. “I – I’ve been trying to teach myself. But I don’t. I don’t know how to read. Or write.” 

Aramis thinks of the Madame’s letter, the way Porthos had flushed and refused to read it – recognizes now the shame that bloomed across his face not for modesty’s sake, but frustration at his own inabilities. 

“Porthos,” he says, stunned. 

“Don’t you dare pity me,” he mutters.

“I’m not,” Aramis presses, angry despite himself at the suggestion. Angry at the entire world that could leave this wonderful, amazing man feeling ashamed, feeling he had to hide every part of himself in order to protect himself. They lapse into silence for a moment. Then, Aramis reaches out, his touch tentative when he presses his fingertips to Porthos’ knuckles. “… I could teach you?”

Porthos looks at him, and residual anger seeps out of him, his shoulders slumping forward with his breath. “I – yeah. I’d like that.” He struggles for a moment, biting at the inside of his mouth, and then he sighs out, “… Yeah. Please.” 

“Of course,” Aramis whispers. 

There’s silence for a moment and then Porthos asks, “Do you want something to drink?”

“No,” Aramis groans out in response, the mere thought of drinking enough to make him curl up all over again. “I feel… I can’t do much right now.”

“You do look like shit,” Porthos says, a shadow of humor to his voice. 

Aramis’ smile is weak, but present. “You flatter me.” 

Porthos chuckles, quiet and uncertain. They sit like that in a long silence, and Aramis tries to relax, closes his eyes and tries to breathe, tries to see something other than snow and Marsac’s retreating back. 

“How did I get by without you here to fret over me?” Aramis asks in a near-whisper, trying for humor and sounding bone-tired instead. His heart flutters and he opens his eyes again, expecting anger or dismissal on Porthos’ face – and instead finds him looking down at him, concerned and earnest. 

“Everyone deserves to have someone else worry about them,” Porthos says. 

It isn’t the first time he’s said something to the effect, and it’s because he’s tired and drained that he doesn’t think to wait before asking, “Did that happen to you? The friends you mentioned. You lost them, right? And there was no one left to worry about you?” 

Porthos is silent for a long moment and Aramis fears it is too much, that Porthos will withdraw, that Porthos will leave. That this will have been too much, pushed too hard. 

Instead, Porthos heaves a sigh. “Who worries for a mongrel from the gutter?” 

“You’re not,” Aramis says, fiercely, before he can process anything else. 

Porthos’ smile is brittled, but he looks down at his hands when he says, “I never had a family to lose. Just my mother. I’m a bastard, you know.” 

He says it so lightly, casual and dismissive, but it is a test. He glances at Aramis, waiting for his reaction, and Aramis knows it’s anything but a casual mention, knows that there is a new tension to Porthos’ shoulders now – words he hasn’t spoken to anyone in such a long time. If at all. 

Aramis sits up with a sigh, but Porthos reaches out and plants his hand to his chest and pushes him back down, holding him down, anchoring him without fear of confinement. There’s comfort in it. Porthos isn’t looking at him now, but his hand serves as a point of connection. He isn’t withdrawing, he isn’t leaving – he’s still here. Aramis’ chest swells beneath Porthos’ hand. 

“She was all I had and then she died. And I was alone,” Porthos says, quiet. “She struggled her whole damn life and should have been happy. And instead she died in the dirt.” 

He’s not looking at Aramis and Aramis can’t breathe, his throat closing up, and he wants to reach out, wants to curl up into himself and wail, wants to do something. His hand shakes as he lifts it and covers Porthos’ hand on his chest with his own. There’s a frantic, firing pulse in his ears. He looks at the curve of Porthos’ jaw as he stares off into the room, at anything but him. 

Porthos’ fingers flex beneath Aramis’ touch, but he seems to relax when Aramis says nothing. 

“It was a fever that got her, in the end. After everything she went through. That’s what did it.” There’s a quiet hollowness to the words. “She went through Hell and back again. And then she just died.” 

“How old were you?” Aramis asks. 

Porthos tenses up and lets out a soft, humorless laugh. “I don’t know.” He tips his head back and laughs at the ceiling. “I don’t know how old I was then. Too young to remember. I lost count – I don’t… know anything about myself. I don’t even know how old I am now. You know what I am? I’m a goddamn orphaned bastard from the Court of goddamn Miracles. That’s all I’ve ever been.” 

Aramis clenches his eyes shut, whimpers once, and shakes his head fiercely. “You’re not.” Porthos says nothing and Aramis clenches his fingers around Porthos’ own, laces them together. “And you don’t really think that. You can’t. You are a musketeer,” Aramis says, fierce and determined. “And a good one at that.” 

Porthos ducks his head, presses a hand to his face, and breathes out shakily. Aramis lowers his eyes politely when a clenched fist rubs across his face, presses to his eyes. He waits for Porthos to steady his breathing. 

Aramis’ head aches. His heart is hammering in his throat. He swallows down thickly and squeezes Porthos’ hand – feels a stuttering relief when Porthos squeezes back. 

“You are a good man,” Aramis tells Porthos’ back, wishes with all his heart that he’d turn around and knows why he doesn’t. 

“I think about it now and wonder if it wasn’t better,” Porthos says, voice wooden and uncertain. “A mercy, after the life she had.” 

“There’s mercy in death,” Aramis agrees immediately, thinks of all his brothers who no longer suffer as Aramis does now and instantly regrets it. 

Porthos shakes his head. “I say that about her and yet I—”

He tries to draw his hand back but Aramis doesn’t let him, clenches his hold on him and keeps his palm planted against his chest. He swells up under his breath, presses to Porthos’ reassuring weight. Porthos doesn’t try to draw his hand away again. 

“Sorry,” Porthos whispers out, suddenly, and if there was ever something _wrong_ , it was hearing that guilt, that jag of defeat in his voice. If ever there was something wrong, it was Porthos feeling he had to apologize. 

“Don’t,” Aramis begs. “It’s fine.”

“It’s _not_ ,” Porthos says fiercely and sucks in a sharp breath. “It’s not the same, I know it’s not the same. I shouldn’t…” 

“We’ve both lost,” Aramis agrees, shaking his head. He squeezes Porthos’ hand. “Losing your mother isn’t the same as Savoy. You’re right. But Savoy isn’t the same as losing your mother. But you – don’t… Did you really blame yourself?” 

Porthos’ jaw clenches, and he breathes out and finally – oh, finally – turns to look at Aramis, his expression stilted and pained. Aramis meets his eyes and offers him a weak smile. 

“I did,” Porthos admits. “She spent all her energy taking care of me – making sure I was warm, making sure I had food. I spent way too many years thinking that if I’d been stronger—”

“Porthos,” Aramis interrupts. “You were a child—”

“I know that now,” Porthos concedes, quiet, but his voice hollow and thick with guilt. When he speaks, it is a low, rumbling thing – soothing Aramis despite the wretched pain in those words. He sounds so wounded and Aramis twists up inside. Porthos admits, “Sometimes I wonder if maybe she’d have been better off without me. If she regretted me, you know? Maybe she could have gotten out of there – if I hadn’t been there. Maybe she’d have survived. She could have gotten out of the Court. Been happy, at least.” 

“No,” Aramis whispers, choking up. His head throbs from his tears, his eyes red and blurry. But he shakes his head, vehement. “No parent would ever wish to be without their child.” 

The words drag through him and he thinks of Isabelle – thinks of a young Porthos, alone and missing the one person who should have been there to protect him. It isn’t her fault, of course it isn’t – and yet Aramis feels a fierce protectiveness again in that moment, the need to just hold Porthos again. 

“Any parent that could think something like that isn’t worth knowing, isn’t worth having,” Aramis whispers out, looks up at Porthos with every ounce of determination he has left in his broken, tired body. “Who could ever regret _you_?” 

Porthos laughs, broken and quiet, and he blinks back rapid tears he refuses to shed – but there is a small, tentative smile on his lips, painful to Aramis only because it means no one has ever told Porthos this before, and what a cruel world it is that such a breathtaking, incredible man should go through it thinking himself unwanted, wondering if the world would be better off without him. Having to fight to feel he belongs. 

He heaves a deep, shuddering breath. “What parent would… could ever want to be without their child?” 

Something softens in Porthos’ eyes, his eyes going misty for half a moment before he clenches his eyes shut and breathes out. His smile is shaky, watery, but it is there all the same. Something eases from his shoulders. 

“She’d always want you to live, Porthos,” Aramis insists. 

“She’d have wanted me to live,” Porthos repeats quietly, agreeing. “With all her heart,” he adds, soft. He opens his eyes again, his smile unbearably heartbroken. “That’s the job of the survivors. To live on.” He swallows. “I know it’s not the same, but—”

“Porthos—”

“— _you_ are more than what happened in Savoy, Aramis.” He shakes his head. “And I’m not just some forgotten boy from the Court. Maybe you think you can’t be anything but that – but I know you’re more than that. Maybe I didn’t know you before, but I can know you after. And this?” He untangles their hands and presses his hand down firm against Aramis’ chest, where his heart beats soundly. “This is a man who’s lived and survived. This is a man who has more to give than a memory.” 

Something inside of Aramis settles, something jagged and broken. He soothes down and he cannot doubt Porthos in this moment – Porthos, who has only ever been honest and true, defensive and wounded but strong and sturdy. He is here now. 

“I wish I could forget sometimes,” Aramis says, not for the first time. He remembers waking up on the ground, alone. He remembers following a cart piled high with his brothers, just a vulture following the carrion. He remembers losing sight of Marsac’s pauldron and regretting not holding it. “I wish I could just move on.” 

There is no pity in Porthos’ eyes when he looks up. Only a deep, longing sadness. Only kindness. 

“We can’t,” Porthos says. “Who else would remember, otherwise?” 

Aramis smiles, a wretched and broken thing – tearing up despite himself, he nods. 

“Who else,” he agrees. 

“You can remember your past, remember all that happened to you – but you can keep going, too. It’s not running away. It’s moving forward.” Porthos touches his hair, briefly, brushes it away from the scar at his temple. “Not everything about living is torture. There’s plenty to love, too.”

Aramis hums, wishing he could hold that confidence. Wishes he could walk through life as Porthos does – so protective of himself, so steady and sturdy, finding things to love, things to delight in and never forgetting who he is. Aramis, instead, just drowns. 

He says, quiet, “Porthos. Thank you for telling me.” 

Porthos shrugs, deceptively light – as if it was not a big thing, as if it was not a vulnerable moment of trust. Aramis reaches out and takes his shoulders in his hands, leans forward so that his forehead presses to his briefly, and he breathes out enough until he can feel Porthos’ answering breath. 

“ _Thank you._ ” 

“You got it,” Porthos mutters, touches his hands with his and draws back – not unkindly. “You should rest.” 

“Will you stay?” he asks, and hates how hopeful he sounds. 

“As long as you want me,” Porthos agrees. 

Aramis clenches his eyes shut, fights back against the _always_ that presses to his throat, and settles for lying back, letting Porthos settle down beside him, a hand touching at his. Aramis curls their fingers together, relaxes only once he’s sure Porthos won’t draw back. 

“Need anything?” Porthos asks after a moment. 

Aramis breathes out, peeks at him through his lashes, feels the beginnings of a headache compound into something steady and painful, the dredges of fatigue. He won’t be able to sleep, but maybe he can relax. 

“Just… stay,” Aramis says, and then tentatively adds, “Pet my hair?” 

There’s a small laugh, a huff of breath if anything else, but then there is a hand in his hair and Aramis relaxes. It’s the first time in so long that someone has touched him where he hasn’t felt like he needs to shy away. Porthos shifts beside him, moves closer, squeezes the hand he’s holding and pets through his hair with his other hand – and Aramis lets out a small sound of contentment. 

With his eyes closed, he feels braver, and says, “Isabelle used to do this for me.” 

“Your lady?” Porthos asks after a pause. 

Something wells behind his eyes, the hot spurn of tears, and he laughs out brokenly. “Once upon a time, perhaps,” he says, knows he is bitter and broken even now – resigned to having missed that chance. He’s quiet for a moment and then adds, “We were engaged. We were going to have a child.” 

Porthos hums out thoughtfully, all understanding and no pressure to continue. Aramis fights back against a sob, scouring up old memories like this. 

“And then she lost it… and I lost her,” he whispers out. The hand in his hair stills and he mourns the loss of movement. He whispers, “Please.”

The touch resumes. Strong fingers stroke against his skin, relaxing. It’s a soft drag through his hair, reverently gentle against the scar at his temple. It doesn’t hurt in the slightest. He only shivers around the overwhelming thoughts pressing to the backs of his eyes, scratching at his throat. 

But Porthos keeps going, and moment by moment, the tension leaks out of Aramis and he lets out a soft breath at the light touches, delicate and gentle – as if he is precious. 

“I searched for her,” Aramis whispers, voice thick – trying to offer his own honesty to Porthos’ own, but it is a struggle, it is almost too much when matched with the raw pain of seeing those graves stretched out again. “And I never could find her.” He laughs, broken, “We would have had a life together – a good life. We would have been happy.” 

“You deserve to be happy,” Porthos offers, quiet and sympathetic. He pets his fingers through his hair. 

“If I did, she’d be with me now,” Aramis murmurs. But then, he thinks, he wouldn’t be here now, either – there would be no pain, no stabbing memory of Savoy. “She was the love of my life – and I lost her.” 

But there would be no Porthos. Aramis turns a little and looks at Porthos, meets his eyes. Porthos is silent, offers him only a small smile as he pets through his hair – kind. They fall quiet then, the silence wrapping around them like a warm blanket, interrupted only by Aramis’ breathing.

“Sleep,” Porthos whispers after so long a time that Aramis long since loses track of the progression of the night. He almost protests but instead he slips off into something like dreaming – although no nightmares wake him. 

 

-

 

When Porthos wakes in the morning, he’s slumped up against the wall and finds Aramis looking up at him, sad and broken – but alive all the same. Aramis drops his eyes and studies their hands, still clasped together. Porthos feels himself almost flush but also doesn’t draw his hands back. For the first time, Aramis’ hand feels almost warm. 

Porthos can tell Aramis wants to speak, though, and so he waits patiently for Aramis to collect the words. He watches him lick his lips, breathe out, and consider. 

“You’re still here,” he says, finally. It isn’t what he was going to say, Porthos can tell, but it’s closes to the heart of it. 

“Yep,” Porthos agrees, no hesitation. “Here I am.” 

They lapse into a silence – not quite comfortable, but not uncomfortable, either. Porthos shifts a bit, groaning as tense muscles protest and creak a little. He stretches, then finds Aramis reaching for him and pulling him down so they lie on the bed side by side. It’s a tight fit, uncomfortable, but Porthos also can’t find himself place to mind. 

“Stay,” Aramis says, quiet – but at least he says it, at least he admits to it.

Porthos nods. “Wasn’t going anywhere.” 

“Oh,” Aramis sighs out – and then gives him a tentative little smile. “Good.” 

They lie there in a short silence, and Porthos eventually reaches out, curls an arm around Aramis and draws him in close. He hugs him, slow and unhurried, and Aramis sighs out, huffs a small breath against Porthos’ shoulder as he shifts closer. Leans against him. Finds support there. Porthos runs a hand down his back. 

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay,” Aramis finally admits, looking at Porthos now. “But… I want to be.” 

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees, voice quiet. “You will be. You’ll be alright. You’re strong.” Aramis snorts, mocking. But Porthos is insistent. “Stronger than you give yourself credit for.” 

“Perhaps,” Aramis mumbles, light. He accepts it with a small sigh and a smaller smile still – and he at least looks honest, less guarded than he had the night before. Porthos has his duties to get to, but Aramis is his focus now. 

“You’ll be alright,” Porthos says, firmly, and believes it with all his heart. 

Aramis smiles, faint, and reaches out to touch Porthos’ cheek – shockingly intimate but not in a way that makes Porthos want to recoil. 

“You are a good man, Porthos,” Aramis says, and he’s the first person to ever say that to him. Porthos has heard the opposite plenty of times, grown far too used to the reverse opinion – but never heard this, never heard it spoken so gently, so fully. His expression softens as he looks at Aramis, finds himself leaning into the touch. 

“You are, too,” he says, because it’s easier to give the compliment back than to receive it. 

Aramis smiles at him – and this time it reaches his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JL has drawn fanart for this chapter and you can look at it [here](http://jlsdrawings.tumblr.com/post/122011128514/im-glad-youre-alive-aramis-some-thread), and you totally should cause it's gorgeous and excuse me while I lie on the floor about it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things shift. Things change. What Aramis once understood to be true changes into something different, something he can't quite place when he looks at Porthos. 
> 
> Aramis returns to active duty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a longer chapter this time around. Enjoy! :D

There’s a certain sound to summer – so different from the spring, so different from snow-quiet roads that settle into a bone-deep sadness inside of him. There’s a vibrancy in the air – the chirping cacophony of distant birds, the buzz of cicadas heard only on the outskirts of the city, the hum of more and more people sweeping through the Paris streets. There’s a certain energy to it, something unique from the spring air, the winter chill. Aramis loves that warmth, loves the way the sun beats down against the bow of his neck. This is the first time in living memory, though, that he can think to be so pleased to leave spring behind.

It’s well into summer now and when Aramis returns from a few errands for Serge, spending the afternoon keeping himself occupied while Porthos is out on duty, he returns to his room to find a message waiting for him with a seal from the Captain’s desk. Aramis breathes out, steadying himself for a moment before he reaches for it. Breaking the captain’s seal, unfolding the parchment, it’s a simple announcement of Aramis’ return to the ranks, officially a musketeer once again. Off his leave. 

Aramis never spoke with the captain about his intention to stay with the musketeers and yet his meaning must have been known all along. The captain was the one to insist he stay, after all, until he was better. Perhaps he knew even then. Aramis can’t help but breathe out, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth – of course his captain would know. Of course he would. It’s a little strange, to read the words and not feel a squeezing, seizing fear. Perhaps, a small part of him thinks he can handle this now. A small part of him thinks it might be okay. 

Despite the reassurance to himself, despite his surety in knowing this is the right decision, his hands still shake a little as he folds the paper back up. Despite the warmth in the air, he still shivers a little and shrugs into his coat. But he’ll be okay. He has to make sure he will be. If not for his sake then for those who were left behind in those woods. It’s his duty to remember. It’s his duty to live. He thinks he can handle that much. 

He shows the letter to Porthos when he returns for the night, reads it aloud to him so he’ll know each cadence of the word – lets Porthos frown over the words for a moment out of curiosity, putting words to the captain’s hand. Porthos gives him a small, hopeful little smile – a reassurance, a belief. If Porthos thinks he’s capable, perhaps he is. Perhaps that’s all it can be. 

It is different with Porthos now. There is a new color to their friendship. Of that much, Aramis is certain. Ever since that night coming upon the graves, he finds himself seeking Porthos’ eyes all the more, smiling at him, looking to him, always honing in on him. Not as a sense of dependency, but a sense of freedom. His choice. Reassurance that Porthos is alive and there. Reassurance that Porthos is there with him. There is no other way for Aramis to feel warm again than to search out Porthos and find him looking back at him in turn, smile curling up and lighting up his eyes. Reassurance. There is reassurance in knowing that they, together, are alive. 

When he wakes up that next morning, he half-expects to feel differently. A thrum of excitement, perhaps, the squirming expectation of new beginnings. Perhaps he’ll feel like himself again. Perhaps—

It isn’t so. He opens his eyes in the morning, woken by the bustle of musketeers in the courtyard and crows on the rooftops. He turns his head and finds Porthos lying beside him. He’s on his side, arm tucked beneath his head and his face lax with his sleep, eyelashes upon cheeks, mouth slightly parted. His face is young, untouched even across years. He looks remarkably boyish, soft and gentle where in wakefulness he’d spend so much time trying to look intimidating. Aramis indulges himself, looking at him for a moment, almost reaches out to touch at his hair, his face. It’d be easy to do so. Porthos wouldn’t protest, either, he thinks. No, he thinks, there would be an understand there. With Porthos, things have changed – he thinks that Porthos must feel it, too.

But even the motion of sitting up is enough to jar Porthos from his sleep and he blinks his eyes open immediately – meets his eyes. 

Aramis offers a tentative smile and says, “Well. Today’s the day.” 

“Did you actually sleep?” Porthos mumbles, voice sleep-thick and graveled out. He sits up and stretches, arching his back and groaning out once, shortly, when his back pops. Aramis looks away, hands going to touch at his hair, his face, slide his fingers along the jut of his chin, the bristle of his beard. Getting a sense of himself. He doesn’t feel any different. He feels just as he’s felt every day. 

“I did,” Aramis answers – although it was a restless sleep. There were no nightmares, but his own expectations were enough to keep him waking up throughout the night – searching out Porthos’ reassuring presence until he could lapse off into sleep again. He should be embarrassed by how much peace he can find in the simple matter of sliding Porthos’ arm across his back. He isn’t ashamed, though. He can’t be. Not about this. 

He climbs up over Porthos, who shifts his legs out of the way to let Aramis pass. He moves over to the mirror and examines his reflection. It’s a different face than the one he saw weeks ago, but it’s still a stranger. His hair has gone shaggy and his beard needs trimming. He looks as tired as he feels. But it’s a start. 

It’s a start, at least. 

He hears Porthos moving behind him and when he turns around, he finds Porthos pulling on his boots and shaking out sleep-tired limbs. He runs a hand over his face, scratches at his beard. 

“You want me to stay?” Porthos asks, looking over at Aramis and drinking him in. There are so many times, so often, where Aramis can’t quite place Porthos’ expression – even now, can’t fully comprehend why Porthos should find him worthy of friendship, in light of everything. 

“No, I—” Aramis pauses and grips the side of his table, breathing out and looking at himself in the mirror, holding his own gaze. He can see Porthos in the reflection, past his shoulder, looking at him. Aramis closes his eyes and shakes his head. “You go on. I’ll meet you.”

“You going to be alright?” Porthos asks. He stands up, tucking his shirt back into his pants in a way that shouldn’t be distracting and yet Aramis watches him in the mirror as he wanders around, adjusting his belt and searching for where he’s left his boots at the foot of the bed and toeing into them. He watches Porthos shake out his limbs a little, roll his shoulders, adjust his shirtsleeves before deciding he looks presentable and ceases the fussing. 

Aramis realizes he hasn’t answered and Porthos meets his gaze through the mirrors’ reflection. Aramis can only swallow and jerk his head in what he hopes Porthos knows is a nod and offer a weak smile in response. “I have no choice in the matter.” But it feels too glib, and he adds, more honestly, “I think I will be. I can handle this much on my own, I’m certain.” 

Aramis watches Porthos for a long moment – just watches his face, the way he lifts his eyebrows and then tilts his mouth up into an uneasy, quiet smile – almost boyish again. How young Porthos must be. 

“Alright,” Porthos says, and there’s a flash of dimples that makes Aramis want to flush – to think that something so simple could earn Porthos’ approval. And that he’d be so happy to have that approval. Porthos pulls on his coat, does up the buttons until the fish scaled leather touches at his chin. Handsome. Porthos grins at him. He wanders closer, reaching out to clap Aramis on the shoulder and asks, “I’ll see you at breakfast, yeah?”

“You will,” Aramis agrees, looking still in the reflection. Feeling foolish for it, he turns around and waves at Porthos before he can second-guess it. He’d feel childish, would feel embarrassed, if Porthos didn’t grin at him wider and wave back before striding to the door. He gives Aramis one last, contemplative look around his smile before he shuts the door behind him. 

Aramis breathes out and watches the door in a thoughtful silence. Then turns back at his reflection. He touches at his hair, smoothes it out over his forehead. He touches at the scar at his temple. 

He doesn’t recognize his own face anymore, hasn’t for so long now. But maybe it’s a matter of taking a step at a time. There are heavy bags under his eyes. His eyes look sunken and exhausted. But still clear. Still his own. 

You can’t go back to what you were. Porthos said as much. But you can find who you’re meant to be. 

Maybe he can do that. He wants to try.

He remembers what Porthos said before, of his hair, that it made it easier to see his face. How long ago that feels now. He remembers the night he sobbed into his shoulder – the way Porthos brushed his hand through his hair, pet through it although it still felt too short against his fingertips. When Aramis was done crying, when Porthos was done hiding his tears in the folds of his shirt, when Porthos told him he was glad he was alive – all else faded beyond that. He remembers the world shifting beneath his feet. He remembers the way his heart twisted up. 

He remembers the day Porthos changed the bandages for him, those first horrible days following Savoy. Remembers the way he’d said he could see his face better, as if that were a good thing, as if there was any pleasure in seeing a face like this. He touches at an uneven flop of his hair now, the way it falls across his forehead. He brushes it back. 

He offers his reflection a small smile that barely lasts long enough to touch at his eyes. He closes his eyes and breathes out, then moves to the little bowl of water to wash himself off: cleans his face, trims his beard. His hands are shaking, unsteady, as he tries to trim his hair into something more sensible, something that looks less like a hack-job and more purposeful. The end result is hardly pretty – still needing work – but it’s at least more presentable. He looks less like someone wandering, lost to everything. He looks like a person again. 

“I’m ready,” he tells himself, tries to convince himself, whispers it out. He’s ready. He’s ready – he might not ever be okay again, but he’s ready to try. 

He can do that much. 

He dresses, slipping on his coat. Left on his table, waiting for him, is his pauldron. He picks it up, runs his thumbs over the imprint of the fleur-de-lis. 

He gives it a shaky smile. 

And then he straps it onto his shoulder.

 

-

 

His first ‘mission’ after returning to active duty, after the traumatizing end at Savoy, is an easy enough errand – hardly anything at all, not worthy of being called a mission. He, along with Dupont and Lescont, are to patrol the upper street’s market. It’s a quiet, easy part of Paris – only noblemen with their attendants and servants. The worst it sees are some pickpockets gutsy enough to brave the streets and the patrol of musketeers. Aramis can see it for what it is – just a small step for him, and partnered with two men who are better suited for the lower streets, for disrupting brawls in taverns and skirmishes in the lower bazaars. It’s clear that he’s being babysat. 

Aramis can’t blame the captain for the posting, not at all. If he were in his position – heaven forbid Aramis should ever be captain – he’d be doing the same for any man. Aramis isn’t yet sure how he’ll react to a true skirmish, to any true fight. Doesn’t know if he’ll be able to dive back in or if he’ll shy away from it all. He understands his captain’s reasoning. It’s his first day truly back, his first day trying to do this properly. It’s meant to ease him back into things. It’s meant to prepare him for later missions down the line. It’s treating him as if he is a new recruit all over again.

It is utterly and insanely boring. 

Lescont and Dupont must think the same and they, at least, do not baby him. When he catches Dupont’s eye, he shrugs a little as if to say _yeah, this is definitely shit_ and Lescont looks as if he is moments away from drooping off into sleep, his shaggy blonde hair falling into his eyes every moment before he wipes it away. 

“I suppose you boys are used to the more exciting expeditions,” Aramis drawls out after the third hour of them simply walking around, searching for something, _anything_ to break the monotony. 

“You could say that,” Dupont agrees around Lescont’s assenting murmur. “Me? I’d much rather be down near Rue Saint Antoine, but we can’t all get the exciting routes.” 

“Who’s down there today?” 

“Pritchard and du Vallon, I think,” Lescont says around a yawn. 

Aramis’ lips twitch with the thought of Porthos, patrolling the intersections of the major streets, catching any would-be criminals by the scruff of their necks like it’s easy. Or, even better, fighting someone to submission effortlessly. He wouldn’t even have to strain. He’d pick them up, throw them down, and pin them against the dirt if he had to. He wouldn’t even break a sweat. He’d make it look _easy_. 

“Porthos has settled in well, then, it seems,” Aramis remarks, glancing at Lescont for any signs of disapproval towards Porthos. Aramis’ hand strays to his gun before he even fully realizes he’s doing so. Once he notices the involuntary action, he coughs a bit. He lets his hand drop, self-conscious at the sudden protectiveness. 

He needn’t have worried, because both Lescont and Dupont laugh kindly, not harshly, their eyes lighting up at the thought of it. Genuine delight in Porthos’ existence. 

“Oh, sure,” Lescont agrees and tips his head up towards the sun, smiling to himself. “Did you see him beat all the recruits at cards the other day? Makes it look easy, he does.” 

“I’m sorry to have missed it,” Aramis says with a small smile, cheeks warm. 

“He also broke up a tavern brawl all on his own the other day,” Dupont pitches in, and he shrugs his overly wide shoulders. “The captain did a good pick with him.”

Both Lescont and Dupont look at him and Aramis pauses, shifting a little suddenly feeling uncomfortable. He takes off his hat, shakes a hand through his hair. His thumb drags along his scar and he breathes out. 

Then he smiles, laughing. “Monsieur du Vallon is certainly worthy of his title of Musketeer.” 

He’s glad, though. Porthos deserves the recognition. Porthos deserves to be adored. He’s a good man, better than most Aramis has ever known. The conversation moves on after that, discussing some of the new recruits, some of the other, less new musketeers brought on at the same time as Porthos – but Aramis stops listening, his thoughts drifting towards Porthos’ smile, the way his hand cupped a melon before slicing through it, the way he touched his hair—

He closes his eyes as he walks, trusting that should any true danger emerge, Dupont and Lescont will have the forthrightness to let Aramis know. He hears the hums of Paris around him – some vendors unspooling rolls of silk to the wealthy residents of the upper market, the chirps of the birds flying above, the passing giggles of praiseworthy women. The patrol is, undoubtedly, a bore. But at least he’s out in the open air and in the sunshine. It’s better than nothing. 

 

-

 

Two patrols later, and Aramis finds himself outside Porthos’ door. He frowns to himself, debates, second-guesses. And then he closes his eyes and takes a breath, knocking on Porthos’ door. There’s a small shuffle inside, and when the door opens, Porthos stares out skeptically before he recognizes Aramis and his expression clears up immediately – brightening.

“Oh,” he says, and then smiles, “Hey.” 

“Good evening,” Aramis greets, already feels a little warmer being on the receiving end of such a smile. “Are you busy?” 

Porthos shakes his head, opening the door and taking a step back. Aramis looks around once and then steps inside, shutting and locking the door behind him, one-handed. His other hand is occupied, holding up a small collection of items. He sees Porthos eyeing it curiously and Aramis waves him over towards his table. There’s a little candle already burning, the chair scraped across the floor. 

“I have something for you,” Aramis says. 

He unwraps his package and sets down a collection of books and primers, intended for children of wealthy men who live up on the upper market street. It’d been a simple matter to call upon Madame Moreau under the pretense of checking in on her. It had meant having to drink tea with her and avoiding questions that would cut too deep, but – it was well worth it to see to his promise to Porthos. He spent the afternoon washing her perfume from his hair – always too cloying, the scent she preferred – and dancing along the razor’s edge of her concern and plunging into memories he isn’t ready to revisit with anyone other than Porthos, but – it was worth it. 

Porthos stares in surprise, reaches out and touches at the sheets of paper, free of blemishes from spilled ink and the collection of tomes meant to assist in learning the French language. There’s even Aramis’ own translation of Genesis and Exodus tucked in there, although he doesn’t acknowledge that to Porthos just yet. He’ll find it soon enough for himself. 

“What the hell,” Porthos exhales, not quite a question. He looks up at Aramis. The corners of his eyes tense up in his confusion, his forehead wrinkling with the lift of his eyebrows. 

“I found these,” Aramis says, quickly, doesn’t let himself feel embarrassed for something so simple, something that should hardly be noteworthy. “I thought you might be able to have some use of them. The market patrol is good for something, right?” 

Porthos, for all Aramis knows of him, is very rarely struck dumb – he’s witnessed Porthos in any number of situations where he can easily roll with the punches and adapt quickly. This gift, paltry to most, seems to have floored him. This gift has floored him better than anything else Aramis has observed. There is a look of genuine surprise on his face. Aramis savors that look, the way Porthos blinks rapidly twice and parts his lips as if to speak before he closes it again. 

“It’s for you,” Aramis adds, and there’s almost a touch of teasing to his voice as he waits for it to sink in for Porthos. 

Porthos sits down heavily at the table, lays his palm flat over the collection of pages. He stares once – blinks – and Aramis fears for half a moment that he has somehow made a mistake and caused offense. But then Porthos’ fingers splay out to feel the sensory treat of fresh, crisp paper. His expression gentles then, as if Aramis has gifted him with all the world, not just some spoiled child’s throwaway. 

Something knots up in Aramis’ chest, seeing that disbelieving look on Porthos’ face melting away into delight. His stomach knots up seeing Porthos’ slow-spreading smile and the way his expression shifts from confusion to happiness so slowly, so tentatively. 

“You did this?” Porthos asks, cautious – _timid_. 

“Of course,” Aramis answers. 

“For me?” Porthos clarifies, devastatingly quiet – as if it has to be clarified, as if he doesn’t _believe it._

Aramis is struck dumb, in turn – struck by the sheer force of Porthos’ surprise, how quiet the words come out. Aramis makes a soft, mournful sound as Porthos ducks his head to hide his smile, presses a hand to his face. There’s an incriminating swipe of his hand across his eyes that leaves Aramis’ entire chest twisting up, and then Porthos drops his hand away and lifts his face up again – looks composed again. It’s only paper, books, and yet—

Aramis feels a sharp twist in his gut. It is the concrete, visceral surety that he will spend the rest of his pathetic life making sure that Porthos never again has to be shocked that someone would do something just for him. 

Taking a deep breath, Aramis sits down across from him, smiles at him – hopes it reaches his eyes, hopes he doesn’t look as if this exchange wants to make him cry. And he does, oh, he does – thinking of the life this man has lived to have such a reaction to something so small. He says, firm and unrelenting, “Of course I did, Porthos.” 

There is a shine to Porthos’ eyes as he looks at Aramis – studies him as he might his lessons. Aramis keeps still, holds his gaze, and reaches out across the table to touch Porthos’ hand, brush his fingertips across his knuckles. 

“Of course I did,” he repeats, quieter this time. He will spend the rest of his life making sure he never has to question that again. This he knows for certain. 

Porthos is quiet and looks down again. He slides one of the books towards himself. He doesn’t look at Aramis now, but there’s a small, cautious little smile touching at the corner of his mouth. 

“I thought… I said I’d help you, remember?” Aramis says, voice quiet but sure. “If you’d – if you’re comfortable, you can show me what you know already and I can see where I can help.” 

Porthos nods a little, bites at his lip, and then stands – going to his side-table and opening a small drawer there, taking out the supplies he’s stored away over the last few months. He carries them over – splotched, barely legible sheets of writing, a small book of poetry, and little scrapes of paper that Aramis can’t make heads or tails of. 

But it’s a start. And it’s a good start. And Porthos, usually so guarded, usually so focused on taking care of Aramis, looks up at Aramis with that cautious hope in his eyes. Aramis swells up a little, nods his approval as he brushes his fingertips along Porthos’ script – wobbly and childish, but bold and stately to Aramis’ eyes. He traces his fingertip over the words, following the curve of Porthos’ handwriting. 

“You’ve done well,” he whispers out, lifting his hand away from the ink. When he looks at Porthos, his ears are red and he manages to give Aramis a small, shy little smile. 

“I’m used to doing it on my own,” Porthos admits, looks a little uncertain holding the slab of an old pen he’s using as a writing utensil. Aramis thinks to himself to visit Madame Moreau again if only to get a proper writing pen from her. 

“You did this all on your own so far?” Aramis asks, waits for Porthos’ nod before he finds himself really, truly smiling at him – laughing a little, almost breathless. He whispers out, not for the first time and certainly not for the last time: “You’re amazing, you know that?” 

Porthos’ smile is crooked, disbelieving, but he shrugs. “I like learning new things.” 

Aramis fiddles with his translated Old Testament books and licks his dry lips. “I know – before, you said you weren’t fully familiar with the church, or comfortable, but—”

“No, it’s good,” Porthos interrupts. He grabs the arm of Aramis’ chair and drags it towards his side of the table so Aramis slots up to his side. “Read it to me?” 

Aramis nods, ducks his head and opens to the first chapter and verse, reads it aloud to Porthos who stoops down close towards the page to squint at Aramis’ writing. Aramis fans his fingertips out across the page, drags it along so Porthos can follow each word at his fingertip. He tells him of the creation of the Earth and the Heavens. Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel. He ducks his head down and drags Porthos in close so he can watch the words – and at times Aramis forgets himself, turns his head and presses to him cheek to cheek in his haste to point to a complicated word and explain it. Porthos’ breath ghosts against his cheek, his lips soft around his smile. They spend the evening like that, Porthos interrupting only for explanations of certain words, certain ideas – and before long, the night melts away into Aramis babbling about his teachings on the Bible, imparting his own ideas to Porthos. 

When he catches himself, he frowns and shakes his head. “Telling you all this… I’ve – that really wasn’t the point.”

“Nah,” Porthos dismisses, resting his chin on his hand and shrugging. His eyes are soft in the light of the candle between them. His smile is crooked, but pleased. “Like I said. I like learning new things. Never took to church as a kid, since – well. You know.” 

Aramis nods a little, and offers a small smile. “I’m hardly an expert.”

“You know more than me,” Porthos answers. “So explain it to me.” 

Aramis breathes out a small laugh, nods, and launches back into his theory about man’s stewardship over God’s beasts and animals, not merely a dominion over them but a call for protection. By the end of the night, pressed shoulder to shoulder with Porthos, he can’t remember the last time he felt lighter. 

 

-

 

The days pass by in such a way – slow, easy steps. Aramis knows he’s just as antsy, just as bored as he was on his own locked up in his own room, in his own self-isolation. That he can feel it is enough to reassure him that, perhaps, he is making his steps. It might also help that the biggest issue he’s run into since returning to active duty is catching a small child from the Court who’d wandered onto the upper market street in search of pick-pocketing targets. The child was young, just a little girl, ratty hair and large, sunken eyes – and she’d looked so much like his own reflection had, back in the early weeks following Savoy: empty, dark, waiting for some kind of release. He’d let her go after slipping her a few coins, before Dupont or Lescont could see, because he didn’t have the heart to turn her in, didn’t have the heart to begrudge her for the circumstances of her birth. 

He never told Porthos about it. It wasn’t about approval, after all. And beyond that, it had been a quiet week, a quieter second week. He spent his afternoons walking the patrol and the evenings showing Porthos his alphabet. He read through books with him and helped him sound out the words. That, too, was going well – save for when he reached the Ten Commandments in Exodus and, following that, the verse after verse explaining the details of servitude and slavery. Porthos, understandably, reached strongly to the words (“Why the hell would this be in here?” he hisses out, back rigid, expression darkening – and shies away from Aramis’ touch when he reaches out to his shoulder) and their reading lesson dissolved into silence soon after. 

Aramis went to bed that night fearing the worst (“Goodnight, Porthos,” he whispers out to no response). But, waking in the morning, Porthos was there just as always, smiling at him a little – expression open and soft (“Morning,” he greets, quiet and perhaps a little uncertain – and Aramis smiles back at him). They hadn’t mentioned it again and it was just as well. Facing Porthos’ anger was enough to rattle Aramis down to his bones. Being without it now is enough to let Aramis breathe easier. 

It’s two weeks into Aramis’ active duty, of stepping through the paces to get there – when Porthos sits down across from him at breakfast and sets down some musketballs. 

“We’re practicing,” he says in greeting, nodding towards where the targets are set up. Aramis chews thoughtfully on the mush Serge serves up every morning, blinks once, and then tilts his head at Porthos. Porthos shrugs a little, “You haven’t had a chance to shoot your gun out there and – well, you might need it for what’s coming up.”

“What’s coming up?” Aramis asks. 

“Drop off mission outside of Paris, to the North,” Porthos says easily, rolls one of the pellets from fingertip to fingertip across the grain of the tabletop. Aramis watches the way his fingers curl, splay out – thick and callused, but handsome all the same. He looks back up at Porthos as he continues, “Nothing too bad, but there have been some robberies along the route, so best to be prepared.” 

“What makes you so certain I’ll be going?” 

“Please,” Porthos snorts. “You’re getting antsy. I put in a word to the Captain – think that if you go with me, it should be alright, yeah? Plus a few others, obviously.” 

“And what makes you think I won’t be able to shoot?” Aramis asks, feels a slow smile spreading over his face – he should be worried, he should be terrified at the idea of leaving Paris, of doing a mission patrol that _isn’t_ a form of babysitting, and yet there is a small hum in his gut that reminds him that, _yes_ this is what he was meant to be doing, this is what he’s born to do: to be a musketeer, not an over qualified city patrol. 

Porthos laughs, looks delighted with the response, and jerks his head. “Prove me wrong, then.” 

“I will still be the best shot in the regiment even if I go years without practice,” Aramis boasts, surprises himself that he could be gloating, and yet here he is. It feels almost foreign even when strangely familiar, a phantom of a time long before. “I’d be the best even if I lose one hand.”

“That would certainly be impressive,” Porthos teases. 

Aramis scoops up the musketballs and follows Porthos, unhooking his pistol from his belt and watching the way Porthos strides up confidently, the way some stray musketeers part for him but smile at him all the same, nodding back when Porthos nods their way in greeting. They say hello to Aramis as he passes, and it’s a strange thing to feel – that maybe he might belong again, even if only in Porthos’ shadow. 

“Alright then, Monsieur,” Aramis drawls out, smiles a little – still so strange that it should feel so natural, still half-expecting it’s a lie, still half-expecting that Porthos will call him out on the farce of it. But the curling, coiling jolt of happiness he feels in his gut must be genuine, must be something true. It can’t just be a curling ghost from months ago. No, no, this must be his. 

He gestures towards the targets when Porthos lifts his eyebrows in question. Then he laughs and asks, “What, you saying I should go first?” 

“Age before beauty,” Aramis says and Porthos bubbles out a small laugh, the sides of his eyes crinkling. Aramis holds his breath, waits for some indication of unhappiness – _he doesn’t know his age, you idiot,_ he scolds himself – but Porthos just shakes his head and reaches out, pushing gently at Aramis’ shoulder, a tease. Aramis relaxes. 

Porthos loads up his pistol and takes aim. Aramis can tell from the way he’s holding the weapon, the angle, that he’ll miss the center point – and isn’t the least bit surprised when the musketball penetrates the outer ring of the target. He just gives Porthos an indulgent smile. 

Porthos studies him for a moment – can’t even look grumpy before he just gives him a helpless little smile. “You’re really –” he begins and then pauses, shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“Tell me?” Aramis asks, watching him even as he starts to load up his pistol – perhaps showing off a bit, the way he can rip open the packet of powder without breaking his gaze from Porthos. He feels the grit of gunpowder in his teeth but he smiles at Porthos all the same, doesn’t break his gaze even as his fingers prod and load up his weapon. 

“You’re smiling,” Porthos says after a moment, shrugs a little. 

“Well,” Aramis admits, feels a little uncertain for a moment before he shakes his head and finishes loading up his pistol, turning towards the target and barely having to take a moment to aim. “… I can hardly resist a chance to show off.”

He takes a moment longer than strictly necessary to aim, in the end it has been a while after all, but when he shoots he hits the center mark and draws back, smiling and triumphant. He tilts his head to look at Porthos.

“See?” he says, and laughs. 

Porthos laughs too, and shrugs. “Guess I worried for nothing.” 

The warmth in his chest dampens for a moment and Aramis shakes his head. “You – you know you don’t have to worry, Porthos.” 

The look Porthos gives Aramis is tolerant but firm, and he reloads up his pistol after a moment, looking down at his hands rather than at Aramis. “We’re friends.” 

Aramis shivers and then breathes out a small, disbelieving laugh – still not sure how to handle that, still unsure how to process it. But he tilts his head towards the target, a quiet invitation for Porthos to focus on that. He can focus on this. He can reassure Porthos that he’ll be alright in a fight, that he can handle himself. That he can take these steps. 

“Yes,” he says, quiet, “We’re friends.” 

 

-

 

Porthos twists around in his saddle to look at Aramis. They’ve been riding all afternoon now, half a gallop and an hour outside Paris, and he keeps turning to make sure Aramis is alright. He himself feels a little uneven and top-heavy on the horse, still not entirely comfortable riding his mare despite his trip to the south a few weeks back. Aramis, on the other hand, seems perfectly at ease. 

“I’m alright,” Aramis says in greeting as their eyes meet. 

Porthos can’t exactly be blamed for worrying – it’s just how he is, especially in light of everything. This is Aramis’ first time outside of Paris. He knows, ultimately, it will be good for him – it’ll help him feel more concretely a musketeer again. It’s why he suggested it to the captain in the first place – vouched for Aramis’ abilities, his mindset. Porthos doesn’t disapprove of Treville’s method of easing Aramis back into the state of things, but he thinks this will do just fine, too – give Aramis a taste of all he’s missing. 

Of course, he’s hoping it’ll still be a smooth expedition, with little problems. An ambush or the heat of battle – he doesn’t know how Aramis will react to it. Personally, he isn’t sure if Aramis will know how to handle it, either. It’s his first time leaving Paris since returning from Savoy. Any issues they run into will be the first fights he’s truly witnessed since returning from Savoy. 

“Porthos,” Aramis sighs out, because Porthos must still look unconvinced – but Aramis’ expression is light, lighter than it’s been in months, and something akin to hope twists up inside of Porthos’ chest. “I mean it. I’m fine. Now turn around before you lead your horse into a tree.” 

Porthos huffs. “I’m not _that_ bad at riding.”

“Straighten your back, my friend,” Aramis tuts when Porthos turns around again. “And adjust your shoulders.” 

Aramis waits until the path opens more and then spurns his horse forward so that they’re riding side by side. Porthos rights himself in his saddle and faces forward, adjusting his hold on the reins before glancing back at Aramis. Aramis watches him, his smile slight but present all the same and he gives an approving nod. He looks so much better like this – infinitely better, lighter, calmer. He almost looks happy. Porthos knows it isn’t that easy – knows there’s still so much Aramis is facing, so much that he hasn’t yet told Porthos, but it’s a start. Already, it’s so much better than it was. 

“You know,” Aramis says after a few minutes of riding in silence, following behind the company of musketeers before them, “It really is nice in a forest, isn’t it?”

He says it quietly and there’s a weight to the words. Porthos looks at him, finds Aramis looking up at bough after bough of the trees high above them. 

“… I think it’s best that it’s a warm day,” Aramis continues, voice quieter still. “No snow.” 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, wishes he could get closer to Aramis – but horseback riding requires a certain level of distance between the two. He sighs out, drifts closer anyway, and reaches out with some effort to touch at Aramis’ arm. 

Aramis laughs at the gesture. “Porthos, you’ll fall from your saddle.” 

“Give me some credit,” Porthos scolds, but rights himself again. It seems to have done the trick, though, because the shadow in Aramis’ eyes seems to pass and he removes his hat so he can tip his head up, feel the sunlight against his face. Porthos watches him, quiet – letting him have that moment. Aramis’ chest swells with his deep inhale, and his face relaxes beneath the beat of the sun’s rays. When he opens his eyes again and looks at Porthos, shoulders slumping forward as he breathes out again, Porthos forgets to look away. 

Ultimately, he knows that Aramis will be alright. He can’t take any credit for it, knows that it is entirely on Aramis’ strength that he’s made it this far, that he’s already so much better than he was. The heat of summer must help, the high-hanging sun and the chirps of birds. Being out in the open air again. Being a musketeer again. 

And ultimately, he doesn’t know how much help he can be – sometimes wonders himself why he always lingers as much as he does. But he knows it’s something he can do, no matter how little. There have been too many – far too many – people he’s disappointed in his life, far too many people who have left him behind. He can do this much. This is no hardship to him. Nothing could be worse than those days after the massacre of Savoy, when he thought that Aramis was dead and gone before he ever had the chance to know him. Before Aramis had a chance to know him. 

Aramis is not his mother. Aramis is not Flea or Charon. He is his own man and Porthos knows better than to be selfish, than to see someone long gone in another man. But the way Aramis looks at him sometimes – like he is all that stands between living and Hell – well. That isn’t something Porthos can turn away from. That isn’t something that Porthos would reject lightly. He’s done it enough in the past for one lifetime. He’s been selfish enough for one lifetime. 

Porthos straightens his spine a little, guides the horse forward with Aramis at his side. He glances at him again. Aramis has taken more care in his appearance today. His beard is evenly trimmed around his mouth, quirked up in a light almost-smile. His hair is growing back out again, and curls nicely beneath his hat – angled just right on his head, covering the scar at his temple. 

He remembers Aramis from those early days before Savoy – close and careless, eyes as crisp as the cold spring air around them. It’s a different look now – the illusion of carelessness. His eyes are soft in a way born from heartache rather than recklessness. But they are kind, all the same. That much never changes, even in his worst moments. 

The ride to the town is uneventful, and they deliver the necessary materials as predicted. It is too late into the day to return to Paris and so the band of musketeers pays for rooms to spend the night, doubling-up to save the money. It’s just as well – Porthos knows he’d fork over money for his own room and yet still find himself in Aramis’, holding him through the night to guide him from the nightmares. 

Tonight, they sit in the inn’s tavern and drink into the night. There’s a lightest dinner that they can afford, some kind of stew Porthos doesn’t dare examine and a few lumps of stale bread that soften with the broth. One of the other musketeers with them, Lacan, is testing his luck with one of the women serving the ale. Porthos watches him flub through his words as if he has never spoken to a beautiful woman before, and he chuckles to himself, dragging his thumb along the lip of his cup of wine. He glances at Aramis, searching for his approval – for a joint amusement at another man’s misfortunes, and finds Aramis watching himself instead. 

“Hey,” Porthos says, “You alright?” 

“Today was good,” Aramis says, and smiles at him – his eyes warming as he meets Porthos’. He takes a long drink of his wine, lowering his eyes for a moment and glancing up at Porthos through his lashes. He swallows the wine down and his smile is warmer still. “It was good to be out on the road again. To be doing something. I was…” He pauses to collect the word and settles on, “Comfortable.” 

“I told you,” Porthos says, and bumps his knee to Aramis’ own under the table. The drinks rattle a bit when the table shifts from the movement. 

Aramis laughs, his cheeks warm. “So you did.” 

Porthos turns his eyes back towards Lacan who, despite his unkempt, shaggy hair and his inability to speak to a woman, isn’t being rejected outright. In fact, the young lady seems to be humoring him, leaning into his space. Porthos chuckles a little, drinks his wine with a shake of his head. 

“He’s going to end up slapped,” Porthos decides. 

He feels a bump to his knee again, turns his head to see Aramis leaning in closer, laughing a little and his eyes twinkling in the dim firelight. “I hope so.” 

“What, you _want_ him to be slapped?” Porthos laughs, leaning in closer to whisper to him conspiratorially, “A really prominent mark that’ll linger once we get back to the garrison. We should send Lacan to give the report to the Captain, if so.” 

Aramis hums out thoughtfully, dragging his eyes away from Porthos to watch Lacan, watches him flub around some more and the lady’s face grow increasingly less amused and darker instead. 

They watch in silence and when, ultimately, Lacan is slapped and recoils from the lady’s rebuttal, Aramis sighs out a breathless little laugh, hidden beneath Porthos’ roaring laughter. 

“Nice try, Lacan!” he shouts out to the scorned musketeer, lifting his cup in a toast. “Maybe next time!” 

Aramis is laughing beside him, and his boot scuffs up against Porthos’ as he shifts forward to pour himself more wine and tap his cup against Porthos’ own. “To Lacan’s pursuit of love!”

“Ha!” Porthos snorts and takes a hefty drink. “And the scorn therein.” 

“Yes,” chuckles Aramis. Beneath the table, his knee shifts a bit, presses up against Porthos’ and stays there. Porthos doesn’t move away and Aramis doesn’t either. They stay pressed up to one another.

Porthos grins at him, warmed by the sound of his laughter. How easy it sounds, even when he knows it’s anything but – when he knows that Aramis being able to smile now, to laugh now is nothing short of strength. Each smile is small and tentative, but genuine. He’s proud of Aramis. Perhaps it’s condescending to think it, but he knows it’s true. He knows how long it took himself to be okay again, after losing his mother, losing his entire world – years and years before he really could smile and mean it. He remembers leaving Charon and Flea, the Court, behind and how angry he was, perhaps still is. He remembers keeping his head down and hating every moment of it, hating to prove them all right, wanting to prove them all wrong – and wanting to not care if he did or didn’t. 

But Aramis makes it feel easier. He can laugh and he can smile, and it helps to find Aramis looking back at him – not judging him, not expecting anything of him. There is safety in being needed. There is comfort in being wanted. 

And he hasn’t been this happy since – well. He can’t remember ever being this happy. And, he hopes, he’ll only be happier still, as time goes on, as Aramis grows happier again, too. 

Lacan loudly laments his bad luck to the barkeep, the young lady’s mother, who seems just as unamused as her daughter. Porthos chuckles, shifts a bit so that he can press his leg further up against Aramis’. Aramis ducks his head to hide a small smile and stays close. 

 

-

 

It is a quiet ride back to Paris. It was a quiet ride from Paris so, in the end, perhaps Aramis should have been more cautious – perhaps he should have been more discerning, excepting that something might go wrong. Perhaps he should have kept a closer eye on the hills above the path.

It is a quiet ride back to Paris. That is, of course, before the shot rings out and Lacan tumbles off his horse, clutching at his shoulder and cursing loudly in pain. Aramis’ horse rears back with a frightened whinny and he struggles to control his mare. 

Someone calls his name – probably Porthos – but Aramis can’t breathe, can’t think around the buzz in his ears as the world explodes around him. Men dissolve through the trees, pistols drawn, rapiers drawn – and all Aramis can hear is a buzzing in his ears, the shouts of his fellow men dying in their beds, blood on the snow. 

It is a warm, stifling day, and he falls from his horse and scrambles back, hands flapping once before he gropes around his belt, searching for his gun. There is an explosion of noise and pain around him – his horse gallops away into the trees and Lacan is on his feet, sword drawn even as his other arm hangs uselessly by his side, his teeth gritting. 

He should get on his feet. But he can’t breathe, he can’t do anything – he can hardly hear anything, hardly react at all. He’s sweating at his brow and his heart is racing and all he can see is snow, snow, snow—

Porthos’ hand fists around his collar and hauls him to his feet. “Go!” he shouts, “Get to higher ground!” 

Aramis stares at him with wide eyes, sees Porthos give him a once over before he _shoves_ him and turns, meeting a sword with his own, then kicking the opponent solidly in the stomach until he stumbles back. Bandits, or robbers – or just hoodlums, but whoever they are, they likely didn’t expect to come across a band of musketeers, expecting an easy troupe to rob blind and disappear back into the woods. They’d been warned, they’d been warned—

Aramis shudders out a breath, lifts his gun to aim at the man Porthos fights against. His hand is shaking and he can hardly gulp down enough air to stay on his feet. But another man is coming towards him and he has to drop his weapon and stumble back to avoid getting hit. His eyes are on Porthos – how easily he moves, how solidly he moves. He’ll be alright. Lord, let him be alright—

He punches out towards the man in front of him, catches him in the chin and sends him toppling back. His hand throbs with a burst of pain. It hadn’t been a solid hit, he’d gone at it sloppy and his hand _throbs_. Aramis scrambles, back pressing against a tree, and he whips out his gun and takes the shot. Porthos’ opponent crumbles to the ground and Porthos turns his head, catches Aramis’ eye and makes sure he’s alright before he rounds away and searches out Lacan. 

The breath stutters out of Aramis – can’t even begin to let himself calm down because they are still fighting, still fighting. But these men are no match for a group of musketeers, and it’s clear who will win the day. Still, Aramis struggles to reload his pistol, his back pressed to a tree, fingers shaking. 

So much blood in that snow—

They all died alone, in their sleep, screaming for mercy and he, he—

He doesn’t dare close his eyes in the heat of battle. He doesn’t dare. He doesn’t dare do anything but this – reloads his pistol but can’t lift his arm. It’s dead weight. He’s dead weight. His feet are frozen, stuck in the snow, stuck wrapped around his blanket as he struggles to stand from his bedroll, his head dizzy and fuzzy around the shot to his temple. 

Porthos grabs his arm, jerks him forward. “Aramis!” he shouts. “Aramis!” 

Aramis blinks at him – once, twice – clears his head, clears away the fuzz. He shudders out a breath, grasps Porthos’ arm, squeezes. Alive, solid, warm. _Porthos—_

“Come on,” Porthos says, tugs him, moves him back towards where the other musketeers are grouped together. 

There’s the snap of a twig to his left. He turns, he looks, he sees the bandit moving towards them – rapier drawn, steel and the glint of the sun against the blade. This is no battle at all, this is a group of boys fighting against men, this is nothing but a farce, this is _nothing_ and—

Aramis’ feet are lead weights. He moves to grab his sword, but his movements are wooden and slow.

“Porthos,” he starts, _get behind me—_

_Be safe—_

_Don’t—  
_

Porthos’ hand is on his chest – and he shoves—

It happens so suddenly. One moment Aramis is on his feet. The next moment—

Aramis tips back, stumbles from the force of Porthos’ shove. He watches as the sword swipes down across Porthos’ face, catching at his eye. The sound Porthos makes it something like a wounded animal, a howl of rage and pain, and he doubles into himself, hand pressing against his left eye. Blood curls around his knuckles, drops down onto the ground.

Aramis stares for one moment, and then something bursts inside of him – a flash of red hot anger, and he stills for only one moment, for half a breath he watches as if in a dream as the man above Porthos raises his sword again. Watches Porthos stagger, cut his leg out to swipe against the man’s ankles, catch the man in his knee so he bends forward funny. He watches for half a breath as Porthos staggers backwards in pain, cursing out, blood on his hand. But then—

Aramis breathes out. Aramis draws his pistol again – aims, hardly has to take another breath. His body sings with anger, hatred, despair. His eyes focus on Porthos, fighting even while on the ground. His heart swells. 

His hand holds steady and there’s no hesitation when he pulls the trigger this time. He doesn’t have to aim – only shoot. The musketball catches the man in the forehead. The man staggers back and then falls, doesn’t move again. 

 

-

 

They are not far from Paris, and in the end it’s quicker to press a makeshift bandage to Porthos’ eye and ride the rest of the way – but Aramis is tensed and unhappy the entire ride and once they are back through the city walls, to the garrison’s gate, he practically trips in his effort to get off his horse and get to Porthos – drags him towards his room, barks at Lacan – perhaps unkindly – to give Treville the reports of the mission after he gets his shoulder looked at, practically bites off Chaput’s head when he suggests grabbing the surgeon instead. Porthos is morose, silent – which is alarming enough on its own. Lacan suffered the worse injury and yet Aramis can only focus on Porthos. There is blood dry on his face, on his hand – but he is lucid and he is alive. 

Aramis curses loudly as he throws open the door to his room, shoves off his cloak and pulls Porthos towards his chair, pushing him down onto it and unwrapping the bandage quickly so he can get a good look at the damage. Some poor soul comes to the door to ask what happened and Aramis snaps at him, doesn’t know what words he says beyond _get away_ and _fuck_ and _off_. There is blood all over the side of Porthos’ face – curse head wounds to the heavens, Aramis despises all that blood – and his eye is clenched shut around the wound that splits the side of his head open. It is not as bad as Aramis feared, but it is bad enough – aggravated by the riding for the last half hour back to Paris, and Aramis hates it, hates that he didn’t insist on caring for Porthos right then and there, if he loses the eye, if there is too much blood, if there is an infection, if he _dies_ , then—

Porthos touches at his wrist. 

“Aramis,” he says, voice tight with concern, but the name spoken as if it is no hardship. 

He doesn’t answer. Aramis snags himself from his thoughts, ducks his head and gets to work. 

There will be a scar – of course there will be a scar. A straight line, from forehead to cheek, across his eye. He cups Porthos’ face, tips his chin up, shifts one hand to cover his good eye. 

“Can you see at all?” he asks, looking into the eye, the whites of it an ugly red jag but the iris that same beautiful color, deep and true and looking right at him. His hands shake upon Porthos’ cheeks. 

Porthos’ face is still in Aramis’ hold and he says, calmly, “I see you, Aramis.” 

Aramis feels he’ll shake apart at any moment. He cleans off Porthos’ face, presses slowly over the wound. No fresh blood comes, most of it dried by now, and Aramis is gentle enough not to disturb the clotting already underway. That is a good sign, but he will still need to stitch it. It is deeper upon his forehead, lighter upon his cheek with the arc of the swords’ swipe, and it only just missed his eye, thank God. 

“Aramis,” Porthos begins.

“Don’t speak,” Aramis interrupts, his voice as rattled as he feels. “You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have—”

“You were going to get hit,” Porthos says, calm, and God, how can he be so calm – how can he be so—

“I don’t need protection! I don’t – you shouldn’t be protecting me.”

Porthos sighs, as if Aramis is a great child, and it makes Aramis’ blood boil, makes him want to grab him and shake him, to _make him understand_ because it is too much, it is too much—

Porthos says, “It’s exactly because you think like this that I need to protect you.” 

“I never _asked it of you_ , Porthos.” 

Aramis stands up, drops the bloody cloth and searches out for a cleaner one, searches out for his supplies for stitching him back together. Porthos’ face is slack, so young, and now it’s scarred, and now it’s scarred because of _him_ and his own incapacity. He can’t even handle a fight. He can’t even look past the sight of blood, can only see churned up snow and broken men. It is too much. It is not enough. 

Useless, useless – how could he have been so stupid—

“Aramis,” Porthos says behind him, where Aramis digs around furiously through his drawers. He finds what he’s looking for – his needle and thread, more cloth. He clenches his eyes shut and breathes out in a shuddering breath. 

He turns. He returns to Porthos. He sits down before him. 

“I didn’t ask you to take that hit,” Aramis says, voice thick, as he reaches out a hand and traces over the spot just beside the cut on Porthos’ face, forehead down to cheek, a thin, steady line cutting across his eye. He does not look any less handsome to Aramis – if anything, he is more beautiful. But he is so angry. He is so heartbroken. This is his fault. 

“You couldn’t have taken it for me,” Porthos answers, and his thumb hooks at his chin, the backs of his fingers touching at his cheek, his knuckles dragging down over the bristle of his beard. Aramis looks at him, doesn’t lean into the touch or pull away, uncertain how to work his way around the touch – intimate and gentle. 

Aramis can’t speak for the words, though, and Porthos studies his face as he moves his fingers, sliding them down along his jaw, over his cheekbone, touches at the dip of his chin. Aramis isn’t breathing, can’t even think to do so. He just watches Porthos.

He licks his lips, staring at Porthos with dark eyes. “What’s to say that I would have?” 

“It’s written all over your face,” Porthos says, and there’s a sense of wonder in his voice at that – as if it is a shock to think that someone should throw themselves into danger for his sake. That quiet surprise is enough to break Aramis – because for all Porthos’ strength and kindness, there should be countless men and women who would do all they can to make sure he lives, to make sure he is happy. Porthos’ expression softens and he tips his head to the side as his hand turns, cups his cheek. “Like now, too.” 

Aramis closes his eyes, shivers. “I don’t want anyone to die for me. No one should. What a _waste_.” 

“Don’t say that,” Porthos says, voice sharp in its fierceness. When Aramis opens his eyes again, that kindness in Porthos’ eyes is overshadowed by his anger. “Don’t say you’re a waste.” 

“Aren’t I?” Aramis asks, and doesn’t ask it simply to be melodramatic – but simply as a fact. A broken man who somehow didn’t die in that snowy forest, who was left behind in a mass of corpses and _clearly_ doesn’t know how to move past it. Just thinking of it now is enough to shutter his heart. He was doing better – why is it that whenever he thinks he’s doing better, something has to drag him back down again? 

And even before that, what did he have – a life of soldiery, having lost the love of his life. What good he had left in his life has long since evaporated. Better he throw himself into a blade’s path for the sake of protecting Porthos, than seeking salvation for himself. 

But, no – Porthos wouldn’t agree with that. Porthos would never agree with that. 

He looks at him now. Porthos watches him, steady and unrelenting – and Aramis looks down, threads up the needle with shaking hands. 

This close, Aramis can clearly see where the lines are beginning to set in to the corners of Porthos’ eyes, his mouth. His face will scar and his face is far older than Aramis yet realized. There’s an uneven tuft of hair at his jaw, where he missed shaving that morning. 

Porthos is a man who makes his own choices. Porthos is a man who sees something worthwhile in Aramis. _A waste_ he’d called himself. He swallows down. Licks at his lips. Tries to thread up this goddamn needle. 

“I’m not a waste,” he relents, admits – realizes, finally. 

Porthos watches him, nods once – and then again, a little faster this time. And then he smiles at him, like he’s proud of him. 

Aramis flushes. “Close your eyes, Porthos.” 

“Alright,” Porthos yields and Aramis has grown so used to the sound of Porthos’ voice, thick and warm, intimate and comforting even like this. Porthos shouldn’t be proud of him. He shouldn’t. And yet Aramis feels a little warmer for it. 

“I should have sewn this right away,” Aramis mutters, feels the blood drain from his own face as he brings the needle inches from Porthos’ eye, his hand dropping to his cheek, pulling it a little to even it out. “Don’t move – or it’ll scar more.” His voice catches, jagged and uncertain. “It’ll – it’ll scar, Porthos. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Porthos says, face lax and eyes closed, pliant under Aramis’ touch. There is a chuff of soft, broken laughter, his smile crooked and uneven, curved up slightly in favor towards his right side. “I don’t mind.” 

Aramis looks at Porthos for a moment – how gentled he looks in that moment, the cut sharp against his face, angry and red, blood on the tips of Aramis’ fingers, his needle perched in forefinger and thumb, waiting for the tug and sharp pull to close Porthos up again. The blood should scare him. Porthos throwing himself so bodily to protect Aramis should scare him. 

It should scare him. 

“Aramis,” Porthos says after a moment and he must have hesitated because Porthos opens his eyes, looks at him – reaches up and takes Aramis’ hand. His fingers are warm on Aramis’ palm, rough with calluses but gentle in his hold as he cups Aramis’ fingers. 

“I’m sorry,” Aramis says at last. “You – had no reason to do this.” 

“I’ve got plenty of reasons,” Porthos says in return and gives him that lopsided smile again. 

Something jags in Aramis’ heart, a sharp tug – like a wound reopening, and Aramis gives him a wobbly smile back and touches at his cheek, tipping his head back. “Close your eyes, Porthos.” 

 

-

 

The nightmares return – of course they do. Porthos shouldn’t be surprised by it, but he’s still pained on his behalf. That night his eye still smarts from Aramis stitch-work, straight and fine work, certainly, but still – Porthos has never been great with pain. That night, he wakes to Aramis shuddering beneath the covers, his voice tangled up in a strangled gasp of pain and for help. Porthos shakes him awake, catches Aramis’ fist before he can throw it out and catch him in the eye for his troubles. 

“Porthos,” Aramis gasps out, face crippled and wrinkling beneath his heartache. “I – God.” 

“It’s alright,” Porthos murmurs. “I’m here.” 

He takes him up in his arms, curls around him, folds into him – but Aramis just looks ashamed, just shrinks in his hold and slumps against him, grasping at the shirt on his back. “It – was so much easier when I didn’t have to think about it. About anything.” 

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees, his voice tight. He runs a hand down Aramis’ back. “You’re – doing better than you were before, already so much better. You’re alive, Aramis. We’re all safe.”

Aramis’ laugh is hollow and unsavory. He curls a little, presses his face into the juncture of Porthos’ jaw and neck, and just breathes out shakily against his skin. Porthos holds him close, ducks his head against him, tries to breathe out slow and steady so that Aramis can relax better against him. 

“I don’t feel like I am,” Aramis says, but then quickly amends, “Sometimes I think I am. Other times, I feel the same as I have been.” 

“That’s normal,” Porthos says, then remembers himself and lifts his hand, petting through Aramis’ hair – delighting in the small sound Aramis makes, an encouragement. “Nobody expects this to be perfect instantly for you. Nobody expects you to just get over it.” 

“I just… I wish I could,” Aramis admits. 

“Of course,” Porthos answers, feels a twist of pain at the thought of it, at the thought of everything he’s gone through and suffered. He closes his eyes and holds to him. His eye beneath his bandage throbs in pain but he focuses on Aramis, focuses on holding him in his arms. 

“Please just – be careful, from now on,” Aramis says after a pained moment. “Don’t be foolish for my sake. Just – don’t get hurt.” 

Porthos doesn’t tell him that they’re soldiers, that pain is inevitable. He doesn’t tell Aramis that he worries about him because they’re friends, that he’ll always want to protect him – that he’ll always _need_ to protect him, because it feels too much like condescension. But it is, undoubtedly, the truth: that deep, pained need to make sure Aramis is okay. To make sure he’ll survive. To make sure he’ll come out of a fight alive. 

“I can handle bigger hits than you,” Porthos says. 

Aramis’ hands clench in his shirt and he makes something suspiciously like a growl before he mutters out, “Being bigger means very little when a blade could take out your eye!” 

“It turned out alright,” Porthos dismisses.

“You were one inch away from losing your sight!” Aramis barks out, withdraws from Porthos’ hold in order to give him a stern look, his face twisted up in pain and frustration. “Don’t just dismiss that!” 

“Okay, okay,” Porthos sighs out, doesn’t have the energy to fight against Aramis like this, not tonight, not when he can’t even articulate the way he felt in that moment – watching someone lunge towards Aramis, who was brave and sure and trying so hard even in a fight that could only conjure up bad memories, his first fight since Savoy. 

He doesn’t know what Aramis could have thought in those moments – all he knows is that his hand held steady and he hit someone square in the head, someone who would have done Porthos more harm. 

He cups the back of Aramis’ head, holds him close again. Aramis relents, slumping against his shoulder and muttering something inaudible against his shirt. Porthos pets his hair until he feels Aramis relax. 

Aramis is strong. He is brave and he is true-hearted. Porthos could never doubt that, not after today – not after watching him face down his demons and come out on top. Not unshaken, perhaps, but alive and sure-footed all the same. 

“I’m sorry,” Aramis offers again. 

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Porthos says. 

“Your eye…” Aramis starts.

“It’s just an eye,” Porthos says, pretends he doesn’t feel Aramis tensing up against him. “It’s no hardship.”

“ _Porthos_ ,” Aramis says, voice thick and with a touch of ice, but Porthos says nothing in reply – only waits for Aramis to say more.

He doesn’t, though. He falls into a moody silence and nothing Porthos does against his hair or over his back helps relax him until he lapses back into an uneasy sleep. Porthos holds him close.

 

-

 

“You should be resting.”

Porthos rocks back onto his toes, turns around and finds Aramis there – face twisted up in intent and lip curled in a small challenge. The smile is ungentle. Porthos breathes out and turns more towards him, eyes the sword in hand, pointed downward. 

“It’s fine,” Porthos says, lifts a hand and touches at the corner of where his eye would be, if it weren’t covered in bandages to protect the stitches. They itch like crazy but otherwise the ache has subsided over the last few days. 

Aramis’ insistence, however, has not deterred even from the first moment Aramis put his hands on him and stitched the wound up. Aramis should know, should understand that feeling of isolation, of being locked up – Porthos has never been one to enjoy staying in one place, especially bed-ridden, and the slash of a sword across his eye will hardly stop him now. 

“It is not,” Aramis says, and there is something sharp to his voice, something surer and more even than he’s seen him before – some kind of decision met, some kind of challenge set upon in his mind. He tips his chin down and, in reply, Porthos finds his own chin tipping back – looking at Aramis, uncertain, waiting. 

Porthos stares at him. 

“You should rest,” Aramis says again. “Even if I have to knock you out and drag you there myself.”

“It’s just my eye,” Porthos dismisses – he’s faced far worse, his body is testament to that: a harbor for different war stories, different sufferings and injustices laid upon his body. A scar is a scar. It means little to him now, even one that will be so prominent as laid out upon his face. That one, perhaps, is not an injustice. That one is protection – and he is alright with that. 

“It’s not,” Aramis grits out and it’s so strange to see him so angry, to see it bubbled up so desperately. “It’s—” he cuts himself off, his eyes going steely, his face tight. “It’s not just an eye.”

He has been on edge the last few days, this Porthos knows – surly in places, snappish in others. He isn’t sleeping well, fighting through old wounds and reawakened nightmares. When he looks at Porthos’ bandaged face, there is only anger and guilt there. It isn’t, in the end, unexpected that Aramis should be standing here before him like this. 

“Alright,” Porthos says, slow, lifting his face to look at Aramis properly. His smile is a charmer’s smile but Aramis’ face twists up for a moment, canted wrong against Porthos’ easy laugh – rejecting it, rejecting the lightness that Porthos offers to him. “What are you saying, then?”

“Go rest,” Aramis reaffirms. 

“And if I refuse?” Porthos asks, knows he shouldn’t be amused, knows he should be listening to Aramis if only to set him at ease, if only so he won’t look at him like he’s a failure, like he’s an annoyance. Instead, he pushes back. He was practicing his shot. He needs to get better with that, after all. 

Aramis breathes out and tips his chin back, looks up at the sky like asking for heavenly intervention to deal with Porthos’ particular stubbornness. “Alright, Porthos,” he says, voice tight but evened out now, a deep graveled sound. “Alright.” He holds his hand out, points the sword straight at him. “Spar with me. If you win, I’ll let it go. If I win, you’ll _rest_.” 

Porthos opens his mouth, almost asks him why he cares, why he’s so insistent, why he looks at him as if he’ll break apart at any moment. As if it is Aramis’ fault. But in the end, Porthos supposes he can guess the answer. 

“… Alright,” Porthos answers, feels a thrum deep down low in his gut, and draws his sword. His thumb slips down the grip of the haft. He holds it tight. He shrugs one shoulder, squints at him with one eye. Taps the side of his injured face. “You have an unfair advantage.” 

Aramis’ smile is bitter. “Then make sure you beat me.” 

He slides forward, lifts his arm, and their swords crash together – one blow against another, the blade struck. Aramis withdraws and then strikes again, twice more. Both, Porthos blocks with little effort. The laughter fades from him, cowed in by that smile that also soon fades from Aramis’ mouth. 

They speak little, Aramis on the offensive and Porthos meeting each attack in a level kind of detachment. Aramis is going easy on him – despite his proclamation, held back by a need to make sure Porthos is okay. He’s afraid of provoking the injury, Porthos knows. 

Porthos straightens, blocks a blow, and takes a step towards Aramis. Aramis side-steps, moves circularly around Porthos, tries to catch him at his blind spot. Porthos turns, blocks him, frowns at him. 

“You’re slow,” Aramis says, as if that is proof of anything. 

“I’m fine,” Porthos answers.

“Stop lying to me,” Aramis returns, swipes his sword back and parries. 

Porthos blocks again, but falters in his step, stares at him as if he has been struck in the gut. “I’m not lying. I don’t lie to you.” 

“Just stop,” Aramis answers, face crumbling. He swings his sword and Porthos catches at his wrist, not ungentle but enough that Aramis stills instantly. 

“Aramis,” he warns out and Aramis’ jaw clenches. “Aramis,” he says again, quieter, more gentle. “What’s this really about?” 

Aramis sags a little and the hand in Porthos’ hold shakes, the sword clasped tight in his fingers. He stares at Porthos and Porthos stares back, unmoved. Where others would be intimidated by the sheer size of him, the hugeness his body allows, here Aramis just stares at him, not backing down, sweat beaded at his throat and dust in his mouth. 

“You’re not taking this seriously,” Aramis says after a moment, jerks his hold back and swings his sword down.

Porthos is almost lazy in bringing up the sword to block him, the movements slow. “Neither are you. Didn’t you want me to rest?” 

He knocks Aramis’ sword away and Aramis is, briefly, left open – arm cast out, chest exposed, throat bare as he swallows back words he isn’t speaking. Porthos steps forward to lay out a lazy blow, slow on his end as well, and Aramis blocks it. This is hardly a battle. It is hardly a spar. It is a conversation only, this Porthos knows. Knows that Aramis isn’t taking it seriously, isn’t wanting to hurt him, to risk hurting him. Porthos meets each blow Aramis issues, but it is hardly anything of note – nothing like the frenzied sparring they’d done in those first weeks. This is gentle. 

“I don’t understand,” Aramis answers, and when he swings his sword down there is more force to it, there is more heat to his eyes. Porthos watches the way Aramis’ nostrils flare as he draws in a sharp breath, his lips twitching in his unhappiness. “I don’t _understand._ ”

“What?” Porthos asks. 

Aramis swings the sword down harder, enough to jar Porthos, to make his wrist ache and tighten up against the force of it – not expecting it. He steps back and Aramis advances, on the offensive again, his eyes dark as he looks steadily at Porthos. 

The movements, suddenly, take on a more forceful nature. Aramis steps forward, more confident, swings down – focuses in on him. Porthos is, truly, on the defensive. He grunts once when he catches Aramis’ sword at a strange angle and his shoulder twinges. He twists around more, to get a good look at Aramis, who abuses his blind spot. He swipes at him, hits him once with the blunt edge of his sword. 

Sweat beads at his forehead, his grip on the sword’s hilt slick under the relentless summer heat and Aramis’ surety. His stitches itch. He wants nothing more to unwrap the stifling bandages and scratch at his face, drag his nails down along the seam. He curses out as Aramis swings down aggressively, catches hard at his sword. 

“What the hell is your problem?” Porthos asks, desperate, unable to read the expression on Aramis’ face.

Aramis twists up, angry, breathing out heavily. “I want to get stronger!” His hand shakes where he presses their swords together, steels himself and floods into Porthos’ personal space, so that they are almost chest to chest, their swords crossed between them. “I don’t _want_ you to have to protect me! I want to be able to protect you, too, Porthos.” 

Porthos blinks at him once. Then his brow furrows, frowning, confused. “Wh—”

“I never want you to get another scar because of me,” Aramis says, quieter now, his hands shaking when he grips the sword’s hilt. “Never again.” 

The shock melts into Porthos’ veins. He steps back, drops his sword. Frowns at Aramis – who stares at him, desperate and uncertain, his face flushed. 

“I’m not going to fight you,” Porthos decides.

“But you are,” Aramis returns. “You’re fighting me right now. You won’t _rest_ , you won’t listen. Stop fighting me. Stop hurting yourself!”

Porthos shakes his head. “What is it that you want from me, then? To just lie back and let you do everything for me?” 

Aramis turns away, drops his sword and touches at his face, breathing out harshly and not looking at Porthos now. He seems to shake apart for a moment, shaking his head. Porthos almost takes a step towards him, but Aramis curls into himself, shoulders tensed. 

“It isn’t about what I want,” Aramis finally says. “I just – I don’t want you protecting me over yourself.” 

“What makes you think I am?” Porthos mutters. 

Aramis makes a mournful sound, turns, moves closer towards Porthos. He reaches up and cups Porthos’ face, fingers splayed out across the bandages covering his injured eye. Porthos stills beneath the touch, his brow furrowing. 

“… It’s not about putting you above myself. It’s – I can’t tell with you. I knew I could take that hit. But… I didn’t know if you could,” Porthos admits. 

Aramis makes a soft, mournful sound – his face twisting up in frustration for a moment despite a touch of fondness in his eyes. He hisses out a long breath. 

“That is _not_ what I want, Porthos,” Aramis says, fiercely. His touch on Porthos’ palm is gentle, empty hand and open hand. “… I didn’t need you to take that hit for me. I don’t _need_ you to protect me.” 

Porthos closes his eyes, breathes out.

“I know – I understand what you’re doing. I know that you want to help me. But it – do you think I could forgive myself if something happened to you that I could have prevented?” 

Porthos feels like he’s missing something huge here – something that Aramis isn’t saying in words. He can sense it, just under the surface but still out of reach. But then, there has been something different ever since the night Aramis cried in his arms. This – it isn’t so different from that, now. 

Porthos breathes out again, lifts his hand and curls around Aramis’ wrist. He leans into the touch at his cheek. Aramis’ fingers flex, then open, spread to cup his face better. Aramis shifts a little closer and when Porthos opens his eyes, he can see the way his pulse jumps in his throat, the way he swallows down more words he leaves unsaid. 

“And what makes you think it isn’t the same for me?” Porthos answers, voice thin and wisping out, heavy with something he isn’t saying yet. 

Aramis meets his eyes. Aramis’ hand shifts, cups Porthos’ jaw. His thumb settles on the ridge of Porthos’ cheekbone, and at last he admits, quiet, “I don’t want you to die.”

He looks twisted up just talking about it, stealing his breath even in the abstract.

“You think something like this could kill me?” Porthos snorts out, dismissive.

Aramis’ expression clouds over. “ _Porthos._ ”

Porthos quiets a little, presses his lips together in thought. “Aramis,” he answers, gently. “What _do_ you want?” 

“I want you to live,” Aramis answers. “Happy. Alive. I don’t – I can’t live with myself if you were to die. Not because of me.” 

Porthos doesn’t apologize – can’t apologize for protecting him. He closes his eyes and breathes out. 

“I’ll get better, Porthos. Stronger. Then, I can protect you, too.” 

“Focus on protecting yourself,” Porthos answers. Aramis makes a sharp note of frustration and Porthos shakes his head. “I’ll be more careful from now. I can’t promise I won’t get hurt – you know I can’t promise that. But—” He sighs. “You’ll never have to worry about me.” 

He feels like he might shake apart, underneath the force of someone’s care, someone’s concern. He can’t remember the last time someone cared enough about him to not want him dead. Flea and Charon in their quieter, needier moments. His mother, perhaps. It hurts to think about it now. 

But Aramis is here and Aramis is alive. And Aramis cares about him. 

There is too much of himself bare, too much exposed. He is unwavering beneath Aramis’ touch, anchored down to him. He does not flee. He does not fold in under that touch, left adrift. He looks at Aramis, another tired man just like him. Both he and Aramis have given up much, sacrificed much – both him and Aramis understand what it is to lose a home, to lose a family, to lose what they want. There is some comfort in that – and there is also little comfort in that. 

He wonders if Aramis is as uncertain as Porthos himself feels. Suddenly, in this moment. 

Aramis looks at him, something unwritten in his expression – then sliding into place, a quiet realization. He almost withdraws but thinks better of it, stays there in Porthos’ personal space, looking up at him, hand on his cheek. 

“Oh,” he says, looks down and then back up again. A moment of understanding beneath his expression, although he does not clarify. 

They stand there in a long silence. 

Then Aramis draws in a breath. “I want—” He stops, frowns, can’t think of what he wants to say. Then laughs, a little uncertain. “Knowing what I want has never been the problem, in the end. You – well. I have never been good at resisting temptation.” 

Porthos frowns. “What does that have to do with my eye?” 

Aramis’ eyes snap open and he blinks up at Porthos. Then laughs a little, nervously, almost draws his hand back. Porthos shifts, covers his hand with Aramis’ own – keeps it there to his jaw, thumb pressed to his cheek. His mouth curls up in an uneasy smile, looking at Aramis somewhat helplessly. 

“Nothing,” Aramis says after a moment, his expression softening as he laughs – and Porthos warms from the inside out. Aramis lifts his other hand, touches at Porthos’ cheek so that he cups his face with both hands, smiling up at him. “You are a good man, Porthos.”

It is not the first time he’s said it to him – and yet it still strikes him just as it did the first time. There’s a deep, thrumming yearning inside of him – to reach out and touch Aramis’ face as he was doing for him now. Aramis’ fingers are on the edge of his wound. His hands are shaking and his smile is nervous. 

Porthos smiles back. 

Aramis closes his eyes, his hand shaking against Porthos’ jaw. “I want…” And then he quiets, and drops his hands away. “I want to be stronger.”

“And you will be,” Porthos answers, and does reach out to touch Aramis this time – but hesitates at the last moment and touches his shoulders instead, cups them, and then draws him in to a hug, holding him close. Aramis melts against him, tentatively holds him back. Porthos whispers to his ear, “You already are.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is one thing to desire - it is another thing entirely to try to deny it. 
> 
> And then it's Porthos' birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EXTRA long chapter for you guys today because there was no easy way to break up this chapter to put into chapter 9 (and as a result, chapter 9 will be a bit shorter than the others, but oh well). Definitely looking forward to hearing what you all think of this chapter - and thank you once again for everyone's support and kind words. Seriously, every comment and kudos is my lifeblood. 
> 
> And in case you missed it, JL drew fanart for chapter 2 scenes yesterday, which I added to the chapter in question. But if you missed it, it's [here](http://jlsdrawings.tumblr.com/post/123218983864/you-really-are-ridiculous-porthos-breathes) and [here](http://jlsdrawings.tumblr.com/post/123219177344/so-what-else-can-those-hands-of-yours-do) again. Seems relevant considering how this chapter turns out... :D ~ 
> 
> And also if you've missed any of the AMAZING fanart she's drawn for this fic, you can check out the tag [here](http://jlsdrawings.tumblr.com/tagged/some-thread-to-sew-the-wound).

“Porthos,” says a voice behind him and when Porthos turns, it’s the captain standing there, arms tucked behind his back. It’s a military man’s pose, befitting the captain of course, but there is a small jolt in Porthos’ gut that makes him worry that something has happened. The captain isn’t all business, though, because once Porthos is looking at him, Treville’s face seems to relax and he offers a small smile. Porthos relaxes in turn, his heart pressing against his throat and feeling ridiculous for it. 

“Captain,” he greets. He stretches his back and winces. 

He’s been helping the newest recruits get settled, sparring with them – and they’re bright men, intelligent and smart and know to aim for his kidneys and his blind spot. He knows Aramis will be frustrated with him if he pushes himself too hard, but it’s not a difficult thing to manage – they’re hardly a fight for him, in the end. 

Standing a little straighter now and moving away from the group of men, Porthos smiles a little as he approaches the captain. The men behind him turn on each other for their sport. 

Treville’s face lightens seeing it and he nods a bit towards the bandages still wrapped around his head, covering the still healing cut over his eye. “I was wondering how you were doing.” 

“It looks worse than it is,” Porthos says, cautious, unsure if the captain has been speaking with Aramis and hearing horror stories from him about how he was reckless and ridiculous and not thinking of his own safety, or whatever stories Aramis would string for the sake of dramatics. 

Treville nods once and walks, heading towards the stairs leading up towards his office. Porthos follows him. 

Once up there, Treville merely takes his usual position, situated at the railing to the balcony and looking down over the regiment, watching as some men go about their work, leaving in or out of the garrison’s gate, and watches the new recruits spar with each other – suddenly showing off under their captain’s watchful eye. Porthos joins him, hands on the railing. 

“Aramis recommended I take you off active duty until your eye is fully healed,” Treville says after a lengthy silence spent watching the recruits.

Porthos’ expression tightens and he drums his fingers against the railing. “He’s worrying too much. I’m fine.” He sighs out. “It’s already better than it was – and I’ve faced far worse.” 

Treville is quiet for a long moment, thoughtful, and then says, “Taking a few days to rest isn’t a bad thing, Porthos.” His voice is warm, something that Porthos could imagine a father might sound like. Porthos goes quiet with the thought, staring down at the ground far below him and keeping his breathing even against the surge of thoughts he’s refusing to feel. Treville adds, unaware of the tone of Porthos’ silence, “You have a larger blind spot for now. You’ll leave yourself too open and risk more injury to yourself and others.” 

“I go stir-crazy, staying in one place,” Porthos mutters, then adds, “Captain.” 

“It’s not an order. Merely a suggestion,” Treville says, voice still strangely warm in a way that makes Porthos feel very small and very needed. “It’s seems you’ve done well here, Porthos.” His voice is steady and his eyes stay fixed down at the recruits. “… You seem to be settled. I know that it wasn’t easy for you.” 

Porthos feels a prickling at the back of his neck, his shoulders tensing up until he forces them to settle down again. He stares at his hands, curled tight around the railing. He almost shrugs, almost dismisses it. But the captain already knows his past – he couldn’t hide it from him even if he wanted to – his last captain had known, his last captain had looked down on him for it, a mongrel from the streets. Captain Treville never has. There’s a small part of him that wants to dismiss it – the small part of him that still presents it as easy, the small part of him that’s done it all and made it look easy, like it didn’t even matter. 

“Thank you, Captain,” he says because he doesn’t know what else to say. 

“All the more reason to rest. Especially today,” Treville says. 

Porthos gives him a blank look. 

“Because today…” Treville begins, pauses, waits. Porthos turns to look at him more fully, frowning curiously. Treville starts again, “Are there any – well. What is today, Porthos?”

In this moment, this question feels strange and Porthos won’t be able to make sense of it. Not really. 

But years from now, the Captain – then Minister of War – will draw Porthos aside and tell him that he’s always known the day that Porthos was born. He’ll tell him the day: a warm, muggy day in early summer. When that conversation comes, Porthos will only laugh – amused but heartbroken – and wonder aloud at the fact that, in the end, the day he’d guessed as a kid was so close to the actual one. 

And, in the end, he’ll celebrate the adopted one all the same. 

But that is not yet for many years. 

Until then and in this moment, he looks at the captain in confusion on his birthday, a day that holds no significance to Porthos today. “It’s Monday, sir.” 

Treville’s expression closes off in understanding and he shakes his head to clear away an unspoken thought. “Ah. Of course you’d— So it is… You should take the next few days off. Get your bearings again. I’ll have one of the others take over your patrol.” 

“Thank you, Captain,” Porthos says, still confused but unwilling to press it. 

Treville reaches out and touches Porthos’ shoulder, squeezes it – and his expression is warm again, but a little tense at the corners. Guilty. He sees the captain start to say something and then think better of it. Porthos will not understand the significance of this moment for many years. 

In this moment, he will attribute the look of guilt to the captain’s next words: “How has Aramis seemed to you?” 

Porthos keeps his face neutral, unsure what to give away, unsure what to say – feeling that deep coil of protectiveness twist up inside him, even when facing down their own captain. He thinks of all of Aramis’ nightmares. He thinks of the moment, out in the forest, before the sword came down and slashed at his eye – he thinks of that moment where Aramis stumbled, stared out at the would-be battle with wide eyes, his hands shaking, his mind a hundred miles away in deeper, darker, colder forests than this. He thinks of that and knows that he will lie to his captain if he has to, if it means protecting Aramis. 

“He’s better,” he says, cautious. 

The look Treville gives him means that he has not missed Porthos’ moment of hesitation, of panic on Aramis’ behalf. His tone is quieter, gentler, when he says, “I know you two have been spending time together. Aramis doesn’t open up a lot on serious matters.” 

Porthos nods, slow, unsure what else to say.

The captain adds, “I know you two are close.” 

The corner of Porthos’ mouth twitches, and he busies his hands by adjusting the bandages wrapped around his head. He doesn’t deny it, though, nods a little. He thinks of Aramis’ pale face in the woods, the gun shaking in his hand but held steady when it came to kill the man standing over Porthos, ready to slash him down like an animal in the dirt. He thinks of Aramis stumbling off his horse after returning from Savoy, the smile on his face an automatic, painful gesture to mask the half-dead state. He thinks of the careful, steady dip of his chin before taking a shot, his face ablaze with anger as Porthos stamped his hand against his face to try to stop the bleeding. He thinks of the way Aramis smiles at him in the morning, waking up and finding that Porthos is still there, through it all. He thinks of the heavy, comforting weight of Aramis’ hand against his cheek. 

“He’s,” he says, pauses, settles on, “doing better. He’s himself again.” Something of himself, at least. A different self, but himself all the same. “Aramis is Aramis.” 

“I thought… I was thinking that perhaps I didn’t do right by him,” the captain admits, and it feels too sincere an observation, a fault, to be articulating to someone like Porthos, but he listens all the same. “Perhaps I should have visited him more, checked in on him more. Especially after our last meeting.” He drums his fingers against the railing, stretches out a little so that his arms lock at the elbows and stares out over the courtyard. “But there was – too much to do on my end, as well. But he seems better. And, in the end, he had you.” 

“He did,” Porthos answers, somewhat faintly, somewhat astonished to think that even the captain should have noticed, that it should have been significant enough to remark upon. “He does.” 

Treville smiles at him, reaches out and pats Porthos’ shoulder, slides down to pat him on the side of the arm, over the fleur-de-lis. Somehow, that warms Porthos more than anything else and his smile in return turns more genuine. 

“Rest for now,” Treville says. “You’ll be out fighting with the best of them soon enough.” 

“Yes, Captain,” Porthos agrees. 

 

-

 

“I knew the captain would agree with me,” Aramis says once he’s finished pursing his lips in thought, after Porthos has recounted the conversation with Treville to him. He looks up at Porthos and lifts his eyebrows. “So, am I to be your nursemaid, then?” 

Porthos rolls his eyes and leans back against the familiar support post as he watches Aramis load up a few pistols for the new recruits. “That won’t be necessary.”

Aramis chuckles. He’s fixed on his work, eyes canted downwards as he fills out the powder and shot, humming a few times as he focuses. It’s warming to hear himself laugh, to find it somewhat easy to do so. Perhaps it shouldn’t be this easy. And yet, here he is. 

He finishes with the last one, his own, and looks up at Porthos. “A few shots together and then I’ll insist you rest.”

“You just want to show off.” Porthos, at least, is also laughing, cocking his head to look at him, a smile teasing at his lips. “I don’t think target practice is what the captain had in mind when he told me to rest.” 

“This is good for you,” Aramis decides. “Just aim straight. Don’t have to worry about your blindspot. Your aim is already tragic enough regardless.”

“ _Hey,_ ” Porthos answers, but doesn’t look insulted. 

Aramis closes his eyes, points out his gun towards the target, and shoots. Naturally, he hits the center mark effortlessly. He is, of course, showing off. But only because the warmth of Porthos’ laugh makes it worth it. 

And because he is, of course, the best shot in the regiment. 

“Like I said,” Porthos drawls out. “You just want to boast.” 

Aramis begins reloading his pistol, humming out thoughtfully. “I would never do such a thing, Monsieur.” 

Porthos is so handsome today. The thought comes to him, sudden, as he looks at him. Or, perhaps, not so sudden. He hasn’t been able to shake it from his mind since the moment in the courtyard, sparring against Porthos in a desperate attempt to get him to rest. And once it’s in his head, he can’t get it out.

Porthos is handsome. And Aramis wants him, quite strongly. 

Porthos, wonderful man that he is, naturally goes on fully unaware of Aramis’ inner thoughts. He says, “Someone could still come up behind you while you’re aiming. You can’t account for _that_ blindspot. How do you prepare against that?” 

“Elbow him in the gut,” Aramis suggests in a small, helpful chirp. Purposefully blasé to get Porthos to laugh – and feels his own smile tugging at his mouth when it works. 

“Brilliant plan,” Porthos snorts. “At least until you still get shot.” 

“Perhaps it’d do me some good,” Aramis sighs out, lips quirking into something more humorless. “Keep me on my toes. And at least I’d know the end is coming a few moments before it does. No surprises there even with your back to your man.” 

“You think?” Porthos asks. He chews at his lower lip. 

Aramis shrugs a bit. “It’s strange, really. Here I am joking about it. I wouldn’t have been able to do that before.” 

He hears rather than sees Porthos move, shift closer towards him. When he’s close enough, he hears the sound of a pistol slipping from his belt. He assumes, of course, that Porthos will follow his lead – and miss his target. Instead, the gun presses to the juncture of his jaw to his neck, the slight dip just below his ear. It is a sudden, cool kiss of metal and it steals away Aramis’ breath, makes his heart go still in his chest.

Shamefully, he realizes, not from fear but from lust. His heart twists up in his chest and he shudders out a breath. He should be afraid. He should be enraged, withdrawn, angry that Porthos would make light of this. And yet. And yet—

He doesn’t breathe for half a moment. Then, slowly, he just leans back into the touch. 

That he can feel this now, that he can feel desire – it’s the strangest thought. 

When he looks at Porthos, he’s gone quiet and thoughtful, too, the laughter fading from his eyes into something more solid, heavier. The silence between them isn’t an uncomfortable one, rather born from an understanding between two men who, after only a few months, know each other better than most. And know not to fill a silence with unnecessary words. Aramis feels strangely calm, lips parting slightly as he breathes out, his entire focus on the curve of metal against his fevered skin. 

“I’m too far away,” Porthos says. “How would you expect to elbow me now?” 

The chuff of Aramis’ laughter takes him by surprise, his insides squirming with desire. He can feel it burning against the back of his eyes as he stares at Porthos. Porthos shifts his feet, inches the slightest bit closer. The scuffle of dirt and grit beneath his boots is almost too loud for what seems to be an increasingly loaded silence.

Porthos’ finger is nowhere near the trigger, there is no danger, and Aramis hones in on that. His eyes flicker up to Porthos, who watches him. Perhaps there is disappointment in his eyes because Porthos’ expression goes still, morphs away from quiet amusement and into something more heartbroken. 

“How badly do you want me to pull the trigger?” he asks and sounds unbearably sad. 

Aramis swallows down once, closes his eyes, hates the answer but knows he won’t lie. Not to Porthos. “I don’t. I promise I don’t. But… Sometimes I think you should. That it’d be better.” 

“It wouldn’t,” Porthos says, with surety. “Don’t ask that of me.” 

“No. I know.” He’s quiet for a moment. “… I’d hate to leave you,” Aramis admits, his lips quirking into a humorless smile. He should feel afraid. He should feel angry. He should feel something, something that isn’t this warming from the inside out, something thick with trust and understanding. He looks up at Porthos, leans back against the pistol’s barrel. Goes breathless. Lips part. “I’m in no danger. You’d never hurt me.” 

“No,” Porthos agrees. He drops the pistol away and Aramis mourns the loss of cold-metal against his skin. Porthos’ expression shifts again, into something heavier. “… I’d hate for you to leave, too.” 

Something buzzes through his blood. He straightens a little, goes to Porthos. He brushes his hand over his shoulder, then cups it, leans into his strength. Aramis is heart-sore and tired. It seeps down until it is bone-deep and lodged there, never shaken. It is always there and yet – he can feel this now, too. He feels warm all over, for the first time in months. 

He wants to blame it all on this moment – or the sparring before. He wants to blame it on that. But, really, he knows that he’s felt this even before Savoy. He just didn’t want to acknowledge it. He just wasn’t ready yet. 

Porthos cups his hand over the back of Aramis’ neck, squeezing just a bit – and that. That is infinitely better than the gun. He leans further against Porthos, breathes out against his neck. Aramis stays still like that, letting the comforting warmth of Porthos’ hand settle against him before he shifts back to look up at him. Porthos is looking back at him with a steady, even gaze.

“… Now I’d elbow you,” Aramis decides. “You’d never see it coming.”

Porthos laughs, bright and clear. Porthos smiles that same smile that’s been twisting up Aramis’ heart for months now, he realizes. He can feel it in the way it lodges in his throat now. 

 

-

 

That night, with Porthos snoring in his ear, Aramis can’t help but think how easy it’d be to turn over, press up to Porthos, and just go from there. His blood singing in his veins, his breath gone from him, he could reach out and press Porthos down, climb against him, run his palms down over him and whisper out his name like a promise, lips against the shell of his ear. He could be left grasping, blankets tangled up around him, longing and strung-up, waiting for more. 

He remembers the first day he saw Porthos. Remembers the way he’d stalked across the yard, the way Aramis had physically stopped to stare at him. He remembers what he felt then, that deep, thrumming desire to reach out and touch. He hasn’t forgotten that, not really, but it’s been set aside for so long. 

That he can feel this now – that. That is the strangest of all. For so long, there was nothing but ice in his veins. For so long, there was nothing but unhappiness, guilt, pain – that deep longing to join his lost brothers, his lost friends. There was room for nothing else but mourning. There was room for nothing else but missing.

This is so distinctly different. This is – too much. He feels warm all over – thinks of being warmed from the inside out, held down, cherished – in a dream. Protected. Wanted. Needed. This is different – this is life, this is joy, this is something so foreign to him now. Sun instead of snow. Bright eyes and warm smiles instead of blood in the snow. 

He could reach out and touch Porthos now. 

But he hesitates. Of course he does. 

It is torture to turn his head and watch Porthos snoring next to him. He lies there in a quiet shock, uncertain, feels his breath rattling in his chest. He could reach out. He could touch Porthos, draw him in. It isn’t the first time he’s thought of Porthos above him, beneath him, against him – of course it’s not, he’s not blind – but it has been so long, months, since he let himself think it. It’s been months since he’s let himself want it. It’s been months since he’s genuinely _wanted_ it. 

But it terrifies him. He loved someone so deeply once – and she was gone to him. Lost to him. No answers given. 

Savoy leaves him with no answers, either. More and more questions. The surety that he is worthless, that he is not worthwhile, that he is undeserving. 

He could reach out and hold Porthos now. Sink into him.

But he’s shifted enough that, of course, Porthos wakes up – snorts out a little and blinks his eyes open. There shouldn’t be anything endearing in the way that Porthos’ nose wrinkles up, the way he yawns wide enough that his jaw cracks. His breath is horrible. His face is lax with sleepiness, and the bandages over his bad eye have come loose. 

Aramis gives him a shaky smile in greeting. He says, quiet, uncertain, “Forgive me. I hadn’t meant to wake you.”

“Hey,” Porthos greets, rubs at his eye to clear away the sleepiness – hardly responding to the words Aramis speaks and instead asking, “You alright?”

“Yes,” Aramis answers and it is, at least, true. He is alright. He is alive and Porthos is here. But how easy it would be to reach out and touch. How easy it would be to hold him. He wonders if Porthos would shy away. He wonders if Porthos would accept it, if Porthos would want it.

He remembers that first day he ever saw Porthos. He’d stopped short, he’d stared, he’d _longed_ for him. He hadn’t even cared that he was late to meet with—

It’s with a shock that he realizes he hasn’t thought of Marsac in weeks. Not once. He stops cold, mouth parting slightly as he looks at Porthos. 

Marsac. He didn’t need him, in the end. He wasn’t enough to stay. He wasn’t enough to stay – there’s so much pain there, so much confusion and longing. He left. He left him alone in the snow—

He’d thought Marsac would stay. 

Porthos must see the change in his expression because his brow furrows and he frowns. “Aramis?” 

“Nothing, I—” He gulps in a sharp breath and then slumps forward, curling up into Porthos’ space. Porthos’ arms wrap around him and Aramis gulps in a shuddering breath as he presses his face up against Porthos’ neck, his senses full of Porthos, sleep-heavy and bone-tired. Aramis feels the minutes stretch on and on. “Porthos,” he says, quiet, “Don’t ever—”

He cuts back on the words. _Don’t ever leave me._ He has no right to ask it, no right to believe it won’t be so – in the end, doesn’t everyone leave, anyway? He tightens his hold around Porthos’ neck, shifts his head to nuzzle against his shoulder until he feels Porthos’ heavy hand on the back of his head, petting through his hair. He closes his eyes and breathes out, slumps against Porthos, half on top of him already and too tired to feel any thrill for it. 

He hasn’t thought of Marsac in so long. He can’t remember the last time. But remembering him now is like a jag through his heart, a bitter, painful reminder of all he’s lost. It isn’t that he’s forgotten him, no, no, he never could – but with every day, the separation grows. He fears forgetting the sound of Marsac’s voice, the shape of his eyes when he smiles, the cut of his laugh against Aramis’ thigh. He fears—

“Porthos,” he whispers again and Porthos hums, sleepily, in response and tugs a little on his hair. Aramis shivers and sighs out, trying to relax. “Your… the friends in your past,” he begins, despairing when he feels Porthos tense up beneath him. “Do you… ever think you’ll forget about them?” 

“Never,” Porthos answers after a cautious moment. “I don’t think I could. Why?”

Aramis runs his hands down over Porthos’ arms, traces along the curves of his muscles, and sighs out. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.” 

 

-

 

It’s a hot summer day and Porthos’ stitches itch. He tugs aside his bandages enough to scratch at the corner of his mark down over his cheek. He’s careful, of course he is, not willing to risk Aramis’ wrath should he be caught. It helps relieve the itch, though, and soon enough he’s replacing the bandage and adjusting it to block the light from his still-healing eye. He’s been doing well; he’s been following the rules. He hasn’t been on active duty for the better part of the week, dressing down horses in the stable and helping the newer recruits get settled and practice drills instead. A few of them have shoddy sword skills that need stamping out immediately. Practicing with him is out of the question, and he isn’t confident enough to show them his own shooting skills without Aramis’ laughter to guide him along, so he just sends them through the paces in place of the captain, letting them work out their aggression and boasting amongst themselves. 

He watches the garrison’s gate on these days, waits until the afternoon fades down to something softer, the air lighter and cooler in the early evening. That’s when Aramis comes back from his patrols, searches out Porthos in the crowd and goes straight to him every time. He loves that moment – where Aramis steps into the courtyard and looks around, face lax. And then he sees Porthos and his face utterly lights up as he goes over towards him. 

His first question is always the same: how are you? The second: how was your day? And the third: does your eye hurt? Aramis is always, always predictable. There’s comfort in that, comfort in being able to depend on him, even for something innocuous like questioning his health. 

Today, the sky bleeds out in pinks and purples as the sun sinks down behind the Paris buildings and Porthos sits on the steps leading to the captain’s balcony, smiling absently to himself and digging his nails into the supple cloth of his bandana as he braids up the tails. He reworks it every so often, once it starts getting too loose to stay on his head. It is old and worn, a paisley pattern that Aramis always favors. He twists it up around his head, as best he can without disturbing the bandages, and coils up the tails, sweeps them into tight interwoven braids. 

“Porthos,” a voice says above him and Porthos almost startles, looking up from his bandana and finding Aramis standing immediately before him, hand on the railing and smiling at him so unbearably fondly that Porthos is almost embarrassed. Porthos is a few steps up so they’re eye to eye when Porthos jerks away from his bandana. 

“Hey,” he greets, grinning at him sheepishly. “Didn’t hear you come back.” 

“How are you?” Aramis asks, eyes warm. “How was your day?” 

Porthos laughs, his own private joke, and tilts his head to the side as he looks Aramis up and down. The light is soft enough against Aramis that his cheeks seem almost red when he does that, but Porthos just nods a little, satisfied that Aramis has come back safe and unhurt from the day’s expeditions. 

“Yeah, I’m alright,” he says, leans back against the stairs so that the next steps up dig into his back. He pockets his bandana and smiles up at Aramis, indulgent. 

“Does your eye hurt?” Aramis asks, leaning in to reach for him. He walks up a few steps so he’s towering over Porthos. He plants his foot on the step before him and leans down, one hand braced upon the railing to keep him tethered above him, touches at his cheek and then brushes up, pushing aside the bandages. 

Porthos squints at the sudden light, then blinks his eyes open and lets Aramis examine for himself rather than answer. Aramis’ thumb brushes along the tail end of Porthos’ newly formed scar, presses to the last star of stitches in his skin. His touch is gentle, reverential, and Porthos relaxes beneath him. He breathes out, face slack and open as he stares up at Aramis calmly. 

“It’s already looking so much better,” Aramis murmurs, kneels down on the step so he can lean in closer to Porthos, get a better look at his eye. Porthos blinks once, then holds steady so Aramis can get a good look into his eyes. He tilts his head so that the sun hits his face better to give Aramis better light. He holds his gaze.

Aramis watches him, his eyes flickering a little across his face. And then he smiles, draws the bandages back down over his eye, and draws away again. Porthos mourns the loss of contact. 

“Porthos, I…” Aramis begins, then pauses. Porthos watches him stumble through a few false starts, where he opens his mouth to speak, thinks better of it, and then starts again. Porthos sits up and then eventually stands from his spot on the steps, moves down a few so that he’s level with Aramis rather than towering above him in turn. 

“What is it?” Porthos prompts. He places one hand on the railing, a breath away from Aramis’ hand. Aramis’ hand shifts a bit, moves, the tips of two of his fingers touching at Porthos’ knuckles before he drags his hand away again. 

“I think that… I think that from now on, I should sleep on my own,” Aramis says around a frown. The sunlight makes him look like he’s blushing. Porthos wonders if he is or if it really is just a trick of the light. Aramis looks down and says, “You should stay in your own room.” He fidgets a little, sighs out, looks unsatisfied. “I – I think I’m getting better. I think it’ll be good for me.”

“Oh,” Porthos answers, surprised. He takes a moment and then says, slowly, “Yeah, if that’s what you want. I know I take up a lot of space.”

“That doesn’t bother me,” Aramis protests, quick to correct. He reaches out and lays a hand on Porthos’ arm, fingers tracing along the curve of his fleur-de-lis upon his pauldron. There is comfort in that, comfort in watching Aramis’ eyes flicker down to trace along it more purposefully, his fingertips a slow drag across leather. Aramis adds, somewhat teasingly, “I’m sure you’ll be happy to have your own bed back.” 

“Sure,” Porthos agrees, isn’t sure why he feels disappointed. “… But your nightmares…” 

Aramis smiles at him, somewhat helplessly. He takes one step up so he’s closer to Porthos, his free hand coming up to touch his shoulder, slide down for half a moment to rest upon his chest, fixing one of his askew buttons, supposedly. His hand lingers. Porthos breathes out. 

“I’ll be alright,” Aramis whispers out, smiles at him. “You don’t have to worry so much. It – it hasn’t been as bad, right?” 

“No,” Porthos agrees, frowning. The hand on his arm is distracting, dragging slowly along the loops of his fleur-de-lis. He misses the second hand on his coat. He leans forward a little, getting into Aramis’ space, dropping his voice down low just in case anyone else is still around, “But if you need me, come get me, right? Doesn’t matter what time.” 

Aramis laughs out, quiet, his voice strained for a moment and his eyes bright. “I… I will, Porthos.” 

“… Alright,” Porthos relents, sighs out, drops his head down a bit. “Sure,” Porthos says again, flounders a little in his confusion at this sudden shift, at this sudden change. He hooks his thumbs into his belt. He frowns a little. Shifts his hands to crack his knuckles and shake his wrists out, then hooks his hands into his belt again. 

They stand in a somewhat awkward silence. And Porthos has no idea why it’s so. 

“Are you alright?” Porthos asks, frowns a little. He can’t leave it like this, can’t leave it open in the air like this. 

“Quite,” Aramis agrees. A little too quickly.

“You’ve been acting strange all week,” Porthos says and Aramis shakes his head, dismissing it, but not looking at Porthos, either. His heart shudders a little in his chest, his breath shriveling up. He asks, “Did I do something wrong?”

“It’s nothing like that,” Aramis says swiftly, looks up at Porthos in surprise before it melts into a fond smile. “No, don’t think it’s that.” He must not look convinced because Aramis makes a soft, distressed sound and steps in closer to Porthos. “Porthos, you’re perfect just as you are. I am… Well. I’m myself.” 

“You’re not angry about the scar?” Porthos asks. “If it helps – if it helps you, what if I tell you I’d have done it for anyone, not just you?”

Aramis’ expression flickers, falls away for a moment before he recovers quickly enough, smiling easily and shaking his head. “Porthos, it’s fine.” 

Porthos flounders again, wonders at his own reaction – how desperately he wants to explain it. Nothing would change. Of course, logically, eventually, Porthos would return to his own room at night. Eventually, Aramis wouldn’t need help against nightmares.

He falls quiet. 

Aramis changes the subject after that and the two of them find some dinner, talk about what Aramis did that day, talk about the heat of summer, how much Porthos _hates_ it when there isn’t anything fun to do, talks to him about how bad the stitches itch because at least Aramis will listen. They eat some bread and some fruit Aramis managed to find on the upper street market. They read over some of Porthos’ alphabet lessons, the wobbling, painful looking sticks and switches meant to be letters – but Porthos still flushes with pride when Aramis praises him. 

And then the night falls and Aramis dismisses himself, smiles at Porthos gently in the low candlelight, and takes his leave. Porthos watches him go, kicks off his boots, lies down in the bed he’s hardly slept in for weeks now. 

The truth is, in the end, that he grew used to spending his nights with Aramis. His bed, when he returns to it, feels too empty.

 

-

 

Aramis is slow, methodical, when he peels away the bandages piece by piece. He is deliberate, careful, calculated. It’s hardly something that requires critical attention, the wound already closed up, the stitches ready to be stripped away piece by piece. 

Porthos is patient, head tipped forward and up, eyes closed as Aramis’ fingers brush across his face, brush at his hair, touch at the arc of his eyebrows thoughtfully. 

“So,” Porthos says once the last of the cloth drops away. “What’s the damage?” 

He blinks his eyes open and looks at Aramis before Aramis can think to answer. He is still, lips parted as he watches Porthos. He could lean down right now and kiss him. He wonders if Porthos will let him. 

He slides his fingertips across his cheeks, cups over his jaw. The bristle of his beard presses to his palms and it is comforting more than anything else. His thumbs fold out across his cheekbones, steady there. Porthos’ face ripples up into a thoughtful smile. 

He could lean in and kiss him right now. 

“Your scar,” Aramis says, touches at Porthos’ face. “You’re almost healed now.” 

“Stitches can come out, then?” Porthos asks. 

“Stitches can come out, yes,” Aramis agrees.

“Thank God,” Porthos laughs. “Being cooped up for this long is hell. I don’t know how you managed it.” 

Aramis hums out thoughtfully and brushes one hand back into Porthos’ hair, cups the back of his head and keeps him steady as he retrieves his knife from the table beside them. He traces his thumb along the straight line of Porthos’ scar. 

It’s a delicate process to remove each stitch, but not nearly as frustrating as trying to get the stitches in there in the first place. He has never dealt with a man quite so squirmy as Porthos when it comes to injuries. It’d honestly shocked him before, once he was able to work past the crippling fear and horror that he might lose Porthos. Now, Porthos is steady and quiet beneath Aramis’ skilled hands. 

“There,” Aramis murmurs as he draws out the last of the stitches. His fingertip touches at the scar and he smiles a little. He traces down it, feels the rise of uneven skin beneath his touch. Porthos’ eyes fall shut at his attention. Aramis smiles down at him, fond and gentle. He says, “Still just as handsome.”

Porthos snorts a little, thinking it a joke, and Aramis’ expression softens with longing. 

He says, “I’ll get you some wine.”

He stands and collects up the bottle and a few cups, handing over Porthos’ preferred cup and smiling as Porthos takes a hefty drink. He sits down beside him and bumps his shoulder to his. 

“How do you feel?” he asks.

“For the hundredth time, I feel _fine_ , Aramis,” Porthos answers and bumps his shoulder back. He winks at him and Aramis’ eyes trace over the scar on his face. “It doesn’t hurt. And scars make for great stories.” 

“Women do love scars,” Aramis agrees, faintly. 

They lapse into a long silence, Porthos fiddling a little with the bandages left over, curling them up around his fingers and uncurling it again, playing with the ends of it. It’s something for him to do with his hands but Aramis finds it utterly distracting. And yet, the silence doesn’t feel loaded or uncertain at all, just a comfort between the two of them. 

Aramis turns his head a little, looks at Porthos’ profile – the slump of his nose, the curve of his mouth. He aches with longing.

But he knows it can’t last. Everyone – they always leave in the end. If Porthos were to leave, too, then he wouldn’t be able to stand it, wouldn’t be able to accept it. He’s never considered himself a coward, never could think he is – but in the moment when he contemplates leaning in and kissing him, he hesitates. 

“I…” Aramis begins, fumbles for something to say and settles on, “I received a letter today.”

“Oh yeah?” Porthos asks, leaning back. “You want me to read it?” 

“Oh, no,” Aramis laughs, “I’m afraid it’d scandalize you.” 

“What? A letter?” Porthos asks again, disbelieving, and then starts to laugh. “Did you get another love letter from that widow of yours?” 

“Mm,” Aramis agrees, thankful for an excuse to distract himself, to focus on other things beyond the curve of Porthos’ mouth. “From Madame Moreau. She’s wishing desperately to see me since it’s been so long.” 

“Hm,” Porthos grunts. “You did visit her that one time to get me my writing things, didn’t you?”

“Frightfully short, I believe, is how the Madame described it,” Aramis sighs out. Truthfully, the idea of a more prolonged visit to the Madame isn’t necessarily something he’s eager to repeat. He does enjoy her company and they’ve certain had some – fun, in the past. But it feels so long ago now, so many years and years away. The last time they met, she’d only wanted to speak of Savoy.

“How’d you get into this lady’s acquaintance, anyway?” Porthos asks, scratching at his scar thoughtfully, running his fingertip along the line of it, still getting used to its presence on his face. 

“I was new to the regiment and I… was in some need of some new amenities,” Aramis says. 

Porthos is laughing when he asks, “You seduced her?”

“I’m quite certain the Madame would describe it as seducing me,” Aramis says, placing a hand on his chest. “I am, after all, a devout Catholic of the King’s Musketeers. She has been most generous.” 

“And now she feels neglected,” Porthos decides, laughing more as he shakes his head. 

He chews on his lip and looks at Porthos. “Would you like to go? She has some more writing materials I could ask her for to give to you.”

Porthos shrugs one shoulder, looking uncertain. “I’d just be intruding, yeah?”

“I will tell her I wish to bring along my friend and brother,” Aramis says, gestures with one hand to demonstrate his own good kindness – although his voice jags on the words. He knows it’s too late to take it back but a moment later he knows he never would, because Porthos’ face goes soft with surprise and then that deep-seated happiness that makes Aramis’ heart clench. 

“… Yeah?” Porthos asks.

“Yes,” Aramis whispers out. He recovers quickly, his voice turning much lighter when he adds, “It’d just be for dinner and – She has a sister, I believe. I hear she’s very beautiful.” 

Porthos laughs and shrugs. “Oh yeah? How’d you manage to not meet her, then?”

“I’m wounded,” Aramis teases. “Porthos, my friend, I have eyes only for the Madame, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” Porthos agrees, eyes shut and bowing his head in a concession. 

“You should be seizing this opportunity to snatch up a beautiful lady before she sets her eyes upon me, regardless,” Aramis teases, and finds that some of it is genuine, not all of it is put on simply for the sake of watching Porthos’ laughter. 

“Seizing an opportunity, huh?” Porthos asks with that lopsided grin of his that Aramis loves so desperately. Loves. 

Lord help him. 

“Indeed,” Aramis says, and banishes away the thought of Marsac as he looks at Porthos. But Porthos, too, is someone he cannot have. He is too good for Aramis – he is kind and he is decent, a good man and a better musketeer. Aramis is – whatever he is now. Not a ghost but not quite a man yet, either. 

At the very least, he can help him find someone beautiful, someone worthwhile, someone who can make it all the clearer to Aramis’ heart that it cannot be. 

“And when was your last romance, Porthos? This will be good for you, get you back into the waters. I’m merely looking out for you.” 

Porthos fiddles with his cup of wine for a moment and Aramis almost fears he’s gone too far, but then Porthos says, “There was… Well. Someone. Sort of.” 

“A married woman?” Aramis asks, watching the way Porthos hedges. 

Porthos snorts, his mouth twitching up in amusement at the very thought. “No.” 

“An indifferent woman?” Aramis asks in disbelief and shakes his head, “I can’t imagine there could be anyone who sees you and isn’t interested.” He gives Porthos an appraising glance, knows he’s flirting, knows that now that he _knows_ and acknowledges what he’s feeling he won’t be able to stop it. He tries. “Unless she was blind?” 

“Nothing like that,” Porthos dismisses and his expression is light, purposefully light, when he says, “I loved her. She didn’t love me.” 

Aramis quiets, guilty, and looks down.

“Nah, don’t do that,” Porthos says, gentle, reaches out and touches Aramis’ hand. His voice is thick with love, a lost love left behind and Aramis swallows thickly in the face of such a softened tone. Aramis forgets to breathe, looks down at the way Porthos covers his hand so perfectly. Porthos, heart-heavy, says, “… I asked her to come with me. And she refused.” 

Aramis looks up at Porthos, looks at his face – soft with love, distant and gone, but still felt even after all these years. Aramis swallows down thickly and turns his hand to cup Porthos’ own, squeezes it lightly. 

“Then it is truly her loss,” Aramis whispers out. 

Something light touches at Porthos’ eyes and he tilts his head, squeezing Aramis’ hand back. “Introduce me to your ladies. If that’s what you want, then why not?” 

“Alright,” Aramis says, faint, and tells himself this is the right thing to do. And because he wants to see that soft smile on his lips again, he says, hushed, “Anything for my brother.” 

 

-

 

Aramis hums out thoughtfully, arms crossed, as he gives Porthos the once over yet again. 

“No… I think the other shirt was better,” he decides on, touches at the scalloping of lace along the shirt collar. 

Porthos heaves a sigh, ducks his head forward and lifts his hands to start undoing the ties to the shirtsleeves. “Would you make up your mind? You’ll keep your lady waiting.”

“Hush, I am well worth the wait,” Aramis decides, skims his hands over Porthos’ shoulders to brush out the wrinkles there. He steps back to let Porthos tug the shirt up over his head with a heavy sigh. Aramis stares at his chest for longer than strictly necessary before holding out the second shirt – less scalloping but more lace. 

“These all look the same to me,” Porthos admits with a sheepish grin as he tugs this shirt back over his head, some of the lace getting caught in his hair before he tugs it loose again. Aramis hums his sympathy, distracted by the curve of Porthos’ neck as he tilts his head back and shakes out his wrists to get the sleeves down. Porthos says, “But they all feel nice.” 

“You deserve to have nice things,” Aramis agrees absently, stepping forward to adjust Porthos’ collar for him. 

“You just want me to be impressive,” Porthos teases around a sheepish grin. 

“You are always impressive, my friend,” Aramis answers, fingertips brushing along the stray vee of skin the shirt reveals, wisps of hair and the shadow of a scar. He does up the laces for him. When he glances up, Porthos is giving him a soft look. Aramis’ hands still and Porthos breathes out a little, tips his face down to look at Aramis’ hands. “I…” Aramis starts, then stops. He fans his hands out over Porthos’ chest and just rests them there. “Yes, this is perfect.” 

“Thanks,” Porthos says, and his voice sounds deeper and lower than it did a moment ago – strikes Porthos down hard in his core so his insides squirm. 

“… We should get going,” Aramis musters up at last, takes a step back – _you coward,_ he thinks of himself – and turns his head to retrieve their coats. He helps Porthos shrug into his and hands him his hat. He takes one last look at himself in the mirror and licks at his thumb and finger before twisting up the edge of his mustache. He pats down his hair, folds into his clothes, and turns around to find Porthos laughing at his antics. 

“You look good,” Porthos assures him – which shouldn’t make Aramis blush because it wasn’t as if he were going to ask or anything – and he then leads the way towards the door to Aramis’ room. 

They leave off together, passing through the gate and taking a leisurely path towards the city’s center and the upper market street, taking their time with each other despite Aramis’ apparent rush to get his patroness. 

“This is the one,” Aramis says and gestures towards a grand green door to an elaborate estate. Extravagant to be sure, but perhaps not as much as it could be, had Madame Moreau still been one of the court. He feels Porthos shift at his side, his surprise clear as he takes in the extravagance of the neighborhood. “Are you ready?” Aramis asks politely. He teases, “If you need a moment…” 

Porthos laughs. “Nah. Come on.” 

Aramis approaches the door and knocks steadily a few times. The door opens by way of servant and Porthos shifts a little behind Aramis again, standing a little straighter, a little more self-conscious than he was just a moment before. Aramis and Porthos step inside into the sweeping grand entrance. 

Soon, the patroness arrives, all extensive silk skirts and bright smiles. “Ah, it seems our guests have arrived.” 

“Madame Moreau,” Aramis greets, with a wide smile and more cheer then perhaps he truly feels. 

“Monsieur Aramis,” she greets back in turn, smiling a charming smile. She is younger looking than Aramis remembers her, even after having seen her only weeks before, youthful and bright. There is a young lady in her company, trailing behind her – the sister-in-law, no doubt. Madame Moreau nods her head and turns a little to gesture towards the younger sister, demure and bright-eyed. “Allow me to introduce my late husband’s dear sister, Charlotte Moreau.” 

“Mademoiselle,” Aramis greets with a bow, removing his hat. His smile turns brighter, wider, more delighted when he turns towards Porthos and gestures for him to step forward and away from where he’s been lurking, uncertain, in the doorway. “And allow me to introduce my dear friend and brother, Monsieur Porthos du Vallon.” 

Porthos removes his hat and bows his head, charming and handsome and polite, but Aramis watches as Madame Moreau’s face clouds over in confusion. “Oh!” she says, and remembers to curtsey only after Porthos has straightened somewhat awkwardly, glancing at Aramis to determine if he’s done some kind of faux pas. “Forgive me, when Monsieur Aramis said a brother, I’d thought—”

Porthos, beautiful and charming Porthos, just smiles that lopsided, sweet smile of his – nervous, perhaps, and doing his best to stay calm and relaxed even when her stumble is clear. He says, gentle and non-accusing, “Brother in arms is what he meant, I’m sure, Madame. Aramis is a romantic.” 

Aramis’ heart thuds and he looks back at the two Moreau women. Madame’s face clears up instantly and she looks pleased enough, offering her hand to Porthos. Mademoiselle Moreau looks like she’s been slapped in the face. 

“This way,” Madame Moreau gestures, leads the two men inside. Aramis and Porthos both remove their cloaks and hats, a servant seeming to materialize in the entranceway in order to take them. Porthos’ movements are stiff as he hands the cloak off to the man, who says nothing and keeps his eyes down. 

Madame shows them through the house, lackadaisical in her approach or, as Aramis can guess, showing off her grandeur. She’d done the same to him when he first entered her home and he knows now that she’s demonstrating her opulence to Porthos, who seems both shocked and mesmerized by the lavishness. He’s likely never seen so much gold in his life, as he’s yet to actually attend to the king at his palace. Aramis finds his eyes on Porthos rather than the decadence around them. His heart squeezes up at Porthos’ secretive, longing little smile at some of the grander aspects of Madame’s ascetic. 

“So then,” Madame Moreau continues as she leads them through the hallways towards the main dining room. She speaks to Aramis in a forcefully chipper tone, “You said his name is du Vallon? I believe I knew a Monsieur du Vallon once, owned an estate outside of Villefranche-sur-mer.” 

“I’m afraid there’s likely no relation, Madame,” Porthos answers before Aramis can defer to him. He shifts up a bit once they open up into the room, so that he’s standing beside Aramis rather than behind him. 

“No, I suppose not,” Madame answers faintly. “Well then. Monsieur Aramis, it’s right this way. Porthos, you as well.” 

She gestures for the two to follow. She leads them, along with her sister, into a grand dining room, with high ceilings and chandeliers. There are intricate murals painted on the walls and the china-wear is ornate and beautiful. Porthos looks around, clearly awestruck, taking in the excessive splendor for the first time. Aramis has seen it all before, but it still serves to leave him impressed every time he sees it. He stays close to Porthos, bumps his shoulder gently when the two women aren’t looking so he can nod towards the intricate display of gold candlesticks and candle-snuffers in the corner all on varying levels and tiers. Even the wax is a dyed beeswax to make it glow all the more. Porthos grins a little. 

“Please be seated,” Madame says and the two men sit down beside one another, across from the women. Madame Moreau is all smiles and good nature but Mademoiselle sits in a more stately silence. The older Moreau says, “We’ve really been quite aflutter with the promise of visiting musketeers, haven’t we, Charlotte? It really is quite the occasion. We’ve of course heard so many amazing tales of your regiment from Monsieur Aramis. I’m sure you have quite a few yourself, Porthos.” 

“Yes, Madame,” Porthos answers, and Aramis watches as his smile turns a little tensed under the scrutiny. Madame Moreau smiles, simpering and overly pleasant, and adjusts her silverware cutlery before her plate. Her eyes stray to Porthos’ plate, where his hands remain obediently in his lap. She smiles more when the servants arrive to pour the wine. 

“You’re really a _musketeer_?” Mademoiselle Moreau asks, sudden in her words. She taps her mouth with a cup of wine and takes a long sip, and then says, more gently, “How did you come to join the ranks?” 

“I was recruited from the infantry, Mademoiselle,” Porthos answers. “Captain Treville took a notice to me and offered me a position amongst the King’s men.” 

“Porthos is one of the best musketeers we’ve ever had,” Aramis cuts in and smiles brightly at Porthos, feels his heart twist up when Porthos flushes a little and gives him a small smile in reply. Aramis turns back towards the women. “No one can best him in hand-to-hand combat. He could throw me across the yard if he wished.” 

“Goodness,” Madame Moreau says, politely. “I should be glad he doesn’t, then. No sense in ruining your pretty face, Monsieur.” 

“My,” Mademoiselle answers, oblique and civil. “It’d be quite the tragedy.” She brushes back her curls from over her shoulder, blonde and coiled up with ribbons and roses. She smiles sweetly at Aramis and then looks back at her sister-in-law. 

Madame Moreau smiles at Aramis in turn, then looks back at Porthos, down at his hands where they rest upon the armrests. Aramis fumbles a little, adjusts his glass goblet. They sit in a strange silence, Aramis feel entirely out of his depth – uncertain about the women’s reactions, already feeling on edge. They sit in silence until the first course arrives. 

The dinner proceeds well enough. Madame Moreau asks Aramis several questions and Aramis thrills in an opportunity to recount to her some exciting tales – mostly fabricated for her own amusement, as delivery of letters is hardly thrilling work. He glosses over the time in the forest, the time where Porthos gets his scar because it, somehow, doesn’t feel like something he wants to tell them. Halfway through the story, he feels Porthos’ knee bump against his and Aramis feels a flush of desire for him. 

The second course comes and goes and Madame Moreau says, pleasantly enough, “We were really quite distressed to hear about that whole business with Savoy, weren’t we, Charlotte?” 

Aramis tenses up, soup spoon halfway to his mouth before his hand starts to shake. He sets the spoon back down and smiles, fragile and brittle, twisting up around his face in something unnatural.

“Yes,” he says, feels the bottom of his stomach drop out. He swallows down, tries to summon words.

Beneath the table, Porthos’ hand shifts and rests against his knee, squeezes once, and he cuts in, interrupting gently with, “Is this really gold?” 

He’s holding up a ring that held the real silk napkins and Madame Moreau looks so incredibly alarmed it’s a miracle she doesn’t bolt up in her chair and snatch it from his fingertips. 

“Yes,” she says, blinking twice and then that same, wide smile returns. “I received it from an old friend. She lives in Madrid now, the poor dear.” 

Aramis can’t breathe, his hands shaking, but he looks at Porthos as he continues to play the fool, twists his fingers around the ring as if it’ll disappear up his sleeve at any moment and Aramis _hates_ the way that Madame Moreau looks at him in that moment. He drops his hand beneath the table, curls around Porthos’ wrist and squeezes. Porthos glances at him, and smiles – but it is a sad smile, an expected smile. 

But once he sets down the napkin ring and Madame Moreau has regained some composure, Mademoiselle scowling all the while, the topic of conversation does not return to Savoy and Aramis is exhausted just from that, but deeply grateful. 

Once dinner is finished, the four of them retire to the gardens. Porthos looks much like a child might seeing a grand landscape for the first time, marveling at the idea of nature being so close within the confines of Paris. Aramis smiles after him as he escorts Charlotte Moreau through the garden, the two of them speaking. He feels a jolt of jealousy, that Charlotte Moreau should be able to hold onto his arm as she is, stay so close to him – and risk no scandal as Aramis might simply for standing too close. He offers his arm to Madame Moreau and leads her through the garden in turn, smiling at her demurely for a moment before his eyes return to Porthos’ strong profile, the lace curling along his jaw. 

“I must admit my surprise at you, Monsieur Aramis,” Madame begins with a coy little smile. “When you said you’d be bringing your brother to dinner, I’d expected a man like you.” 

“Handsome and charming?” he asks, laughing because he isn’t sure how else to react. “You’ll find that Porthos is both things.” 

He looks up ahead, where Mademoiselle Moreau is reaching up and touching Porthos’ hair, before he slowly leans his head back and away from her touch. She looks put out, but accepts it with looping her arm through his yet again. 

“Indeed,” Madame Moreau says, voice reedy. She smiles up at him, sweetly. “He is truly a testament to his race, is he not? He’s so articulate! It is truly kind of you to offer your mentorship to a man of his circumstances.” 

The bottom of Aramis’ stomach drops out again and he almost loses his footing entirely as he gives her a wild-eyed look. The strange tension he feels in his stomach, suddenly, coalesces into a disgusted understanding. 

He stares in blatant disregard, blatant confusion. And then the seeds of anger grow inside his gut – and he feels it down to his very core. 

There are so many things he could say to her in that moment. So, so much she’ll never know – never _understand_ about Porthos because she’ll never see it, never want to see it. She’ll never know what kind of man Porthos is. Never know the way Porthos held him through his nightmares, whispered out that he was safe. The way he’d looked at him, sounded to him, when he told him that he was glad he was alive – how Porthos made him feel that, too, that he was thankful for his continued breath. The way he’d stepped in, effortlessly, to block a blow that might have killed him without a moment’s hesitation. The way he laughed, the way he smiled, the way he looked at Aramis like he mattered. 

The way Porthos spoke, sometimes, as if waiting for everything to fall apart, waiting for it all to be false. The way Porthos looked out at the garrison sometimes and how clear it was that he was still waiting – waiting to know that he belongs, that he is worthwhile ,that he matters to someone other than himself. That he is needed. That he is wanted. 

“Porthos is the finest gentleman I’ve ever known,” Aramis says, fiercely, must make her understand, must throw these horrible words back in her face

She twitters out a small laugh, as if Aramis has told a fine joke. 

Aramis loses his words completely, stews in the sudden, unspeakable hatred that twists around his throat. 

Madame Moreau continues speaking, however, before Aramis can reply, “Although, he looks rather intimidating, doesn’t he? Even when he smiles… there’s a sense of danger. You implied that he was a brother much in your mindset of… entertainments and long evenings. I suppose I can believe that. Although I’m not sure my Charlotte will approve of this!” 

Aramis wonders if that’s how Porthos liked it – to just have some fun, to let out some steam, to keep it casual and light. He’d invited him here tonight in the hopes that he might find something in Charlotte Moreau, if only to help set that line for himself – that Porthos is not available, that Porthos cannot be his. But in all the months that he’s known Porthos now, he hasn’t seen him wander off with anyone else. But then, Porthos was so determined to secure his own spot within the musketeers, perhaps he was holding himself back. 

Still, as he looks at Porthos across the path, watches the way he smiles up at the fruiting pear trees above him, slides his fingers along the curve of one of the fruits as if to pluck it before he jerks his hand down when Mademoiselle Moreau scolds him – Aramis can’t help but think it funny that so many should be intimidated by Porthos. Even when he isn’t laughing and smiling – even in those first weeks, when he was stoic and withdrawn – he was never intimidating to Aramis. Aramis finds it odd that others should find him difficult to approach, when Porthos was always so careful with the way he moved, the way he sat, the way he spoke, the way he took up his space: with a calm restraint, but unrelenting and unapologetic. Like a man who was afraid to break the world around him even when the world seemed determined to break him instead. 

Aramis has no reason to fear that. He never had a reason to fear _him_. 

Beside him, Madame Moreau is still speaking. “I must admit that I’m not usually attracted to the more exotic looks, but your Porthos is quite handsome, isn’t he? It’s a bit of a thrill to admit it.” 

Aramis feels another sudden twist of hatred low in his gut at that. He can’t remember ever having hated a woman before this evening as he does now. It is sudden and it is all-encompassing. 

Porthos must feel his gaze because he turns to look at him – his eyes softening from a tensed kind of unhappiness as soon as he sees him. He’s always looking at Aramis these days. Aramis looks back, uncertain what Porthos must see in his eyes. He must see _something_ , though, because Porthos sighs out and shifts away from the young Moreau’s grip on his arm. He turns and guides them back towards Aramis and Madame Moreau. The two women, the garden all melt away until it’s only Porthos looking at him so steadily. 

In a low, husked-out voice, he says, “Aramis.” 

He says it as if it costs him nothing to say – says it as if it is easy, as if Aramis does not still feel that he is breaking apart, that he is a ghost of a man left behind in those Savoy woods. But to Porthos, he is something. To Porthos, he is worthwhile. 

These women are fools if they cannot see all that Porthos is. 

And he is a fool for exposing Porthos to this ridicule. 

“Ah, Porthos,” Madame Moreau greets before Aramis can speak, although Aramis does not tear his eyes from Porthos. “I was just telling Monsieur Aramis how well you’ve done for yourself to find your way to the musketeers and earn their favor. Especially as I must assume you’ve had little money to speak of in your life. And perhaps a difficult home life?”

Porthos keeps looking at Aramis for a moment. Then he turns to look at her and Aramis watches his face, the sound of his voice, change. Porthos’ face is thin and unpleasant around his smile when he says, “Indeed, Madame.” 

“Then you are truly an inspiration and I am not without a heart,” Madame gushes. “If your parents wish for a position that will offer more financial support than your commission, I was just telling Monsieur Aramis that I’m looking for more help around the kitchens.” 

Porthos’ face doesn’t change, the smile stays in place and his eyes remain trained entirely on her. Aramis has never been afraid of Porthos, never intimidated – but that look is enough to make him almost change his mind. 

“How very kind of you, Madame.” To anyone else, it is politeness and restraint. To Aramis, his words and his face are like ice and Aramis shivers. 

Aramis feels too twisted up, too angry, too unable to speak – it is worse, worse to see this woman speak like this, to see the simpering younger’s looks of quiet and poorly disguised disgust. But it is Porthos’ politeness, his forced platitudes that does it for Aramis. His hands squeeze into fists and he hisses out a breath before he forces his shoulders down and forces himself into his most charming smile. 

“We really must be going,” Aramis says, dropping his hold from Madame’s arm. 

“What?” Madame look surprised. “But—”

“Porthos and I must return to the garrison. I’m sure you two understand.”

“A shame,” Mademoiselle says and doesn’t look the least bit unhappy. 

Madame looks more displeased, pouting a little when she looks at Aramis. “I had expected I would be able to enjoy your company more, Monsieur.” 

“We have an early mission in the morning, Madame,” Porthos cuts in when Aramis waffles a little in an effort to think of words, too blinded by his own disgust to be pleasant. “Our Captain will be expecting us.” 

“Well,” Madame answers, clearly put out. “Monsieur Aramis, I expect you to visit again quite soon.” She turns and smiles, wooden, at Porthos. “It was _truly_ a pleasure to meet you, Porthos.” 

“As it was you, Madame,” Porthos answers, sounding as hollow as the Madame’s words. 

They retreat from the garden, and Madame leads them towards the front entry, gestures for the servants to retrieve the musketeers garb for the two men. Porthos takes his things from the servant with that same stiffness, tries to meet the servant’s eyes although he refuses, and shrugs into his cloak with a quiet contemplation. Aramis moves stiffly, jamming his hat on his head and ready to just _leave_. 

They are about to part – Porthos is already through the door – when Aramis finds his arm caught by Madame Moreau, who draws him back. She smiles at him sweetly and says, “My dear Monsieur Aramis. I’m sure it goes without saying that next time I shall enjoy your company solely and without interruptions or other present company. I’m afraid I’m not very good at sharing, especially with unexpected guests.” 

Aramis stares at her, and there is so much he can say, so much anger he feels pressing up against his heart. Instead he smiles at her, cool as ice, and says, “I assure you, Madame, you will not have to suffer such an affair again.” 

He will never see this woman again. 

 

-

Aramis doesn’t speak, hardly breathes – just moves. Every inch of him protests his silence, every part of him wants to turn around and scream at those women, wants to curl into Porthos and never let him go, _protect him from this._ He is ashamed, disgusted in his own part played – in bringing Porthos to such a place, to such women, not having expected that would be the reaction upon seeing Porthos. 

They walk in a long silence. There are only footfalls to keep them company and Aramis shakes all over, frustrated. When Aramis glances at him, Porthos is looking at him, too – looking across the space between them as if he, too, hurt with the wanting. 

“Porthos,” he whispers out, miserably, “I didn’t—”

“I don’t think I want to do this again,” Porthos interrupts quietly. 

“No, of course,” Aramis says, shrinks into himself, shrinks away from Porthos’ expectation that he would ask this of him again. “Why aren’t you angrier?” Aramis asks, miserable, thick in his own hatred and fury. “What they said, how they treated you—”

He can remember Porthos’ rage, before, at even the implications of things like this. Remembers how he’d swelled up under Aramis’ condescension, knocked him black and blue. Here, with them, he was reserved and withdrawn, painfully polite. 

Porthos gives him an indulgent smile, like Aramis is an idiot. “Being angry at them just proves their point. And get me arrested and thrown out of the musketeers. Or worse.” And he adds, “Besides, it was important to you… she’s your patroness.” 

“That’s – How can you think that’s more important than _you_?” Aramis shouts out, sudden and forceful in his words. He stumbles and Porthos reaches out and catches him. Aramis deflates, and moves to lessen the distance between them. His arm brushes up against his. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Porthos says quietly, face slack. “It isn’t your fault.” 

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Aramis whispers.

“I’m not angry with you,” Porthos assures him, voice quiet. Porthos should never be quiet, should never be demure – Porthos should be just as loud as he wants to be, just as happy as he can be. Porthos should not bow to the world – the world should make way and embrace Porthos.

“I’m still sorry, I just – I couldn’t… I’ll find someone better – someone worthy of you. Someone who will—”

“What, love me ‘despite’ what I am?”

Aramis stills, disgusted at himself. He grabs Porthos’ arm, draws him away from the main street and into the shadows of a side alley, staring up at him. There are only shadows here to accompany them, only the darkness. He hisses out his anger in one final breath and the shifts, focuses entirely on Porthos – looks up at him as if he is the sun and the sky, the stars and the moon, all in one. Porthos is everything. Porthos is all that matters in this moment. 

“No,” Aramis says fiercely. “Someone who will love _you_ , not ‘in spite of’ or ‘because of’ – they’ll love you because it’s _you_.” 

Porthos blinks at him in surprise, and then his expression softens. “And where you gonna find someone like that?”

Aramis pulls him down into a hug, holding him. He melts against him, presses his cheek to his shoulder and lets himself drown in Porthos’ hold. “Porthos…” Aramis tightens his hold on him. “Forgive me. Please, forgive me, I would never ask such a night of you – I could never…”

“I know,” Porthos whispers, voice against his temple, and he tightens his hold against him in turn. Like this, Aramis can hear the way Porthos’ heart pounds. Aramis smoothes his hands out over Porthos, tries to calm him. A hand lifts and curls into his hair, cups the back of his head, shifts so that their foreheads press together. It is possibly too much, possibly too intimate – but Aramis can’t care. His heart is in his throat, blood roaring in his ears. 

“You’re an amazing man. Anyone who doesn’t see that is blind and stupid.” He breathes out a broken laugh and holds him. “Trust me. There’s someone out there who will love you for everything you are. I’m sure of that.” 

Porthos laughs, quiet, and looks at him for a long moment. He is calm and he is gentle, and Aramis watches as something clicks into place for Porthos. His smile is hesitant, but genuine. And because he is gentle, because he is wonderful, because he must always, always torture Aramis, he says, “I’ve got what I need right here.” 

 

-

 

Porthos spends the next few days unsure where he stands. He stares down into his drink in the tavern and contemplates – has never been good with overthinking, has always been one to simply _do_. He’s never been very good at it, not really. Especially when it’s things like this, things like flirting or the way Aramis looks at him, and—

Years later, when he meets Flea again after so many years away, when he realizes she _did_ love him after all, he will remember this moment, too, remember that he has never been good with understanding someone’s feelings, because he does not understand the concept of silence, the concept of sacrifice, the concept of fear when it comes to the heart. He has only ever been honest, has only ever expected honesty from others, in turn. It is why he could so quickly imagine a life with Alice, who was smiles and gentleness. Who was soft-spoken, but clearly-spoken in her desire. 

But that is not all for many years yet. It is why in this moment, on this day, he stews over his drink and can’t comprehend that what he sees isn’t just his wishful imagination.

He doesn’t think he’s imagining it, he can’t be imagining it. But, at the same time, he fears he might be missing something big, something important. 

“Porthos?” Aramis asks and Porthos looks up. He hadn’t heard him come in but he’s not surprised to see him, either. It isn’t like Porthos to be off on his own and so it isn’t a wonder that Aramis would come searching for him. Aramis sits down across from him. He smiles, tentatively, and he’s always so tentative – he isn’t sure when it started to become so noticeable, but Porthos notices it now. Has noticed it for the last two weeks, ever since Aramis first began acting strangely. 

“Hey,” he greets and offers a smile, knows it reaches his eyes because he watches Aramis relax a little and drum his fingers against the table. “Sorry, were you worried?”

“I’m used to having dinner with you, I suppose,” Aramis muses. He stifles a yawn – and he’s been tired lately, Porthos knows he has, knows that Aramis is likely having his nightmares and not coming to Porthos. It’s a strange thing to admit to himself that he misses his company at night. Aramis asks, “Why are you out here, anyway?”

“Just a tradition,” Porthos says with a shrug. He twirls his fingers around the lip of his cup of wine. “It’s… well. It’s kind of – well.” 

He studies Aramis’ face, suddenly hesitant. 

Aramis gives him a helpless smile. “It’s not like you stumble like this. What is it?” 

Porthos looks down. “It’s something – it’s not the actual day, it’s just…” He doesn’t know why he feels so self-conscious, suddenly, has always been on edge talking about himself, talking about this. It’s easier with Aramis, but he’s still touchy, still uncertain. He licks his lips and says, “It’s… well.” 

“It’s what?” Aramis asks, gently, looks like he’d bend heaven and earth to do anything Porthos might ask of him. 

“My birthday,” Porthos forces himself to say. “I usually just drink to myself since I don’t really—” He stops talking when he sees Aramis’ expression, stricken and devastated. Then he laughs and shakes his head. “Hey, it’s fine, I just—”

“No, no, this is unacceptable.” Aramis stands up. “You are _not_ drinking alone on your birthday. That is – we have to have a party! With everyone!” 

Porthos blinks at him shock, if not for the suggestion than for the suggestion coming from Aramis. It’s true that he’s made tremendous strides in the months since Savoy, but it isn’t as if Porthos would expect such a social, extravagant plan from Aramis, either. He’s about to protest, about to tell him it’s alright – but Aramis is already sweeping away, slamming his hands down on some of the tables full of other musketeers off their patrols for the day, sweeps over to the barkeep to declare the occasion. 

Porthos honestly shouldn’t be surprised when Aramis’ efforts get the other musketeers roused up, rowdy and excitable. Fifteen minutes finds a sudden party forming around the garrison’s courtyard, the casks of liquor carried over on backs, thumping of chests and choruses of surprise and elation – anything for an excuse to party. Some musketeers slap him on the back, wish him good tidings, and Porthos is overwhelmed – overwhelmed and waiting for someone to ask him how old he is today, ask him about past parties, ask him anything about his past, but—

But it’s difficult to be too uncertain, when Aramis is climbing up on a table and grinning at them all, grinning at _Porthos_ and declaring the evening dedicated solely to celebrating his life. He even lifts a cup, his eyes bright in the evening light, and Porthos can’t help but laugh. Can’t help but accept that this is what he’ll have, in terms of birthdays and in terms of friends – forever more, if he gets a say. 

 

-

 

The party goes on for hours, of course it does. There’s roughhousing, some poor decisions, and lots and lots of liquor. Not just wine, not just the piss-poor ale – but the heavier, classier liquors on the shelves – _expensive_. Porthos isn’t sure how Aramis managed to wrangle that from the barkeeper, but he’s not about to protest. 

No, he’s definitely drunk after hours of drinking, hours of crowing out replies to all the well wishes, to recounting stories to other musketeers, to actually flubbing with his cards in an attempt to show off his skills – the liquor making him numb and happy and slower to move. 

Aramis seems to come alive under the power of the drink – instead of making him morose, as Porthos feared, he is grinning and laughing, flirting his way to more drinks and thriving under the attention. It’s just as well. That’s how Aramis should be – happy, like this. He preens a little, brushes a hand through his hair when he catches Porthos’ eyes, and he grins. 

“Just the man I was talking about!” he calls and flaps his hand so that Porthos will approach. Once he’s close enough, Aramis drapes over him and hiccups to the crowd, “I was just telling these fine gentlemen what and excellent shot you are.”

Porthos doesn’t know if he’s teasing these men, teasing him, or too drunk to remember that he’s a terrible shot. He’s too drunk to protest too much, though, and he laughs and answers, “Damn right I am.”

Porthos laughs, louder, bursting up against Porthos’ ear. “Porthos could shoot anything and hit it every time. Why, he could hit anything even with his eyes shut!”

Which is a goddamn lie and Porthos has to laugh even with Aramis draped all over him like this, drinking from his cup of wine and looking actually _happy_ for once, if only for Porthos. That’s enough. That’s something he’ll always want. 

The crowd, though, mostly made up of musketeers equally as drunk, doesn’t seem convinced. He can recognize Dupont shaking his hair from his eyes and snorting out a, “Yeah right.” 

“It’s true!” Aramis crows out. “Name the target and he’ll hit it!” He turns towards Porthos more fully, drapes his arms around his shoulders and grins up at him, lopsided and sloppy. “Couldn’t you? You could. I know you could.” 

“Sure,” Porthos says, drunk, slurring a little, swaying on his feet and distracted by how close Aramis is, how pretty his eyes are, how full his lips are when he smiles. He tears his eyes away and grins at Dupont and the others. “Name it and I’ll shoot it.” 

Aramis is looking around, searching out some kind of target for Porthos. His eyes fall on Porthos’ hands, cupped at his elbows. He tilts his head, face twisting up with a memory and he nods his head, firmly. 

“He could shoot – a melon!” Aramis declares, louder still, swings his cup around and sloshes some wine on his hand that he then licks up. “A melon off a head!”

The crowd around them cheers and hoots, hollering out obscenities and celebrations to the claim. Porthos has to laugh, because he is flush with wine and he is drunk and it’s his birthday and there are people here, not just Aramis, who seem to give a shit about him one way or another and that – that’s such a strange thought, after so many birthdays outside of the Court alone and without Flea or Charon to steal drink with him. 

“A head?” Porthos snorts. “Who’d be stupid enough to let me aim like this?” Because he’s drunk, but he’s not stupid – he knows how good of a shot he is, which isn’t at all, and he knows he’s likely to blow a man’s brains out than hit a melon instead. “Come on, Aramis.” 

Aramis’ face twists up in thought and then seems to clear as he’s struck with the idea, his eyes sparking up with desire, with the thrill in the promise of danger. He grips Porthos’ shoulders tight and says, “Shoot it off my head!” 

Porthos is already shaking his head, laughing. “Hell no.” 

“Told you,” Dupont calls out, cajoles with a wicked grin that shows he doesn’t mean it when he says, “du Vallon’s too much of a coward to do that.” 

“You take that back,” Aramis snaps, who apparently fails to realize Dupont’s good-natured needling for what it is: trash-talking, goading, born from an ease he’s built with Dupont. He drapes over Porthos’ shoulders and actually _hisses._ “Get a melon and I’ll show you what a man looks like.” 

Porthos would be touched by Aramis’ stupidity if he wasn’t distracted by the way he keeps draping all over him. 

Aramis swivels around and points at a younger Musketeer, Lambert, “Get us a melon. Go!” 

Everyone’s too drunk to realize the folly of this plan, but Lambert stumbles away in a drunken haze to find a melon in the dead of night on Porthos’ birthday. They wait for the melon to show up and in the meantime Aramis turns so he’s only looking at Porthos, his eyes bright and surprisingly clear for someone as drunk as he is. 

“Aramis,” Porthos scolds. “You shouldn’t be stupid.”

“Remember when you had your gun to my neck?” Aramis asks, clearly not listening. “I never felt safer.” 

Porthos wants to say this is different, wants to tell him to be careful – but the way Aramis looks at him is enough to convince him to fall quiet, to just stare at him, watches as Aramis starts unwrapping his belt and unbuttoning his coat, never taking his eyes off Porthos the entire time. Aramis licks his lips and then grins at him. 

He says, “You can do anything, Porthos. You’re perfect.” 

Porthos laughs, like it’s a joke, and his vision swims with drink. He watches, blatantly, as Aramis strips down to his shirtsleeves. 

Aramis shakes his head. “You _are_. Now shoot a melon off my head.”

Porthos laughs again, too drunk to feel any alarm, too warmed by Aramis’ faith in him to feel anything other than surety in Aramis’ surety. Lambert returns a few minutes later, tumbling into the garrison and holding a melon. He nearly drops it and smashes it in his effort to get it to Aramis’ outstretched hand. 

“Alright,” Aramis crows, palms the melon in a way that is, frankly, obscene, and backs up in stumbling steps so that he’s level with the far wall of the garrison. He holds onto the melon and grins back at Porthos. He calls out, loud enough for stray musketeers to pick up on his showmanship, “Now I will show you how great a musketeer our Porthos is!”

He palms the weapon again, throws one hand up when other musketeers hoot out their replies. 

He turns to Porthos and calls, “Draw your weapon, Monsieur! Let’s show these naysayers all that you can accomplish!”

If Porthos weren’t drunk, he would protest more – he knows his abilities, knows his shortcomings, knows that his shot is far from the best. But Aramis is beaming at him, totally in control, totally serious, not doubting Porthos for one moment. Porthos forgets to protest. Porthos forgets to be worried. 

Aramis picks the melon up higher and lifts it, balancing it atop his head with a calculated concentration. He’s grinning, sloppy and boyish and _beautiful_ and Porthos laughs at the way Aramis weighs out the melon, theatrically, before continuing to balance it with shaking hands – not shaking from fear, but from drink. He waggles his eyebrows at the crowd, which falls into a hush now that it’s clear that Aramis is _serious_ , and there are some who aren’t drunk enough to not realize this isn’t a bad idea, and yet no one steps to Aramis to stop him. 

Aramis is in a world of his own, ethereal and beautiful, standing alone against the wall. He should look ridiculous with a melon on his head. Instead, he’s just grinning, he’s looking right at Porthos, and Porthos can’t do anything other than stare, can’t do anything other than yearn – yearn and need him, need this man to be his friend, to be his brother, to be — whatever he might be. He has never felt anything as strongly as he does this, in this moment. 

Porthos watches the way Aramis soaks up the attention – long lost, long shied away from, which he now drinks in fully. He waves his hands a bit to get some more cheering, grins out at the crowd before he catches Porthos’ eyes and lets his expression drag, lets his smile turn more secretive as he stares at Porthos, like he is hungry, like he is waiting for Porthos to come over and get him. Something squeezes around Porthos’ heart. 

“You sure, Monsieur?” he calls out to Aramis, who has almost finished the dance of balancing a melon on top of his head. There are more calls and shouts around them and there’s too much pride at stake – he can’t _not_ shoot now and he’s glad for the drink that keeps him from fearing losing his best friend, his only friend. 

He won’t miss. He can’t miss. Not if it’s Aramis – never if it’s Aramis putting that trust in him. 

 

-

This is how it happens for Aramis: 

He looks out at Porthos and feels no fear. 

He opens his eyes in time to watch Porthos finish loading his gun, to hold it up. His eyes lock on Aramis, standing there with the melon balanced on his head, his arms outstretched – and Porthos doesn’t break eye contact as he dips his head the tiniest bit and presses a kiss to the barrel of the gun. There’s nothing innocent in the gesture, in the obscene way Aramis can see his lips pucker, even from this distance, the slow and dry slide of his mouth against cool metal, his eyes burning with drink and something more intangible – staring straight at Aramis like he’s waiting to defeat him. 

Aramis closes his eyes as Porthos aims the gun, pointed straight above his head. He breathes in once, and there’s a thrill to being at the end of that weapon, and it makes him feel less numb for half a moment, shivering in the summer air, still a few months after Savoy and not ready to move on but ready for _this._

The blast sounds and the melon explodes above his head. He doesn’t flinch, just lets himself smile as he’s soaked in the juice, as he hears the cheers, as he opens his eyes and sees Porthos’ delight, unhindered and unrestrained – so different from the first moment he met him, so different from that reservation and withdrawal. He’s beautiful when he laughs. 

Aramis breathes out, stumbles to Porthos, plants his hands on his shoulders and looks at him through the haze of lust and drink, feels his fingers flex, feels Porthos’ hand ghost over his hip for a moment, as if to steady him. He sways forward, looks at Porthos, and realizes that the laughter he’s hearing is his own, and that he is, for possibly the first time in weeks, actually happy. 

 

-

 

This is how it goes for Porthos:

He looks out at Aramis, looks at the way he smiles – and he memorizes that look. Memorizes his face, his eyes shut and mouth parted in a light smile, awaiting the shot, determined to keep still and wait for Porthos’ shot. 

He holds out his gun, loads it up, watches Aramis. His hands don’t shake, because he knows well enough to trust Aramis. 

He aims at him once the melon is steady. He memorizes Aramis’ face. He kisses the gun.

He aims. He shoots. 

The melon explodes in a sticky, wide mess and the audience around them screams out in triumph – cups slamming together, wine flowing, hoots of surprise and shouts of laughter filling the garrison walls. They are, frankly, disorderly – but it all fades away as he zeros in on Aramis. Zeroes in on Aramis stumbling to him, touching him, beaming up at him. 

Something slides into place for Porthos, in that moment – a concrete understanding. He is not alone. Something opens up inside of his heart and he knows it won’t shut again. Someone hands Aramis a bottle of wine and he chugs it down straight from the bottle, his throat bobbing even as he leans heavily against Porthos for support. He smells like wine – and melon. There are chunks of it in his hair, juice clinging to his grinning face. 

Porthos takes the bottle from him and drinks it down, too, touching where Aramis’ lips last touched. He grins at Aramis, finds Aramis’ eyes on his mouth and then flickering back up to look at him.

Yes, Porthos realizes – Aramis must feel it, too.

 

-

 

The drink begins to run low and some of the musketeers pass out sleeping on the ground, others slump back to their beds, others slouch off to find women. But for Aramis and Porthos, the party continues – along with a few others willing to string the night along and meet the hangover with the sunrise. 

But for now, it’s just the two of them, tucked away beneath the steps leading up to the captain’s quarters – and he knows they’ll all be scolded tomorrow for this, since the captain has yet to make an appearance. But for now, it’s just the two of them, Aramis smiling at him, offering him a bottle he’s just drunk from. His mouth is red with wine and Porthos takes a hefty swig of what’s left in the bottle. Some of it dribbles down his chin and Aramis wipes it away for him. 

“I can’t believe,” Porthos slurs out, “that you got all this to happen. I can’t believe you’re still standing.” He laughs, louder at his own joke, and adds, “I think you drank that whole last cask yourself.” 

“That’s the funny thing about aiming a pistol at someone,” Aramis teases, his arm warm around Porthos’ shoulders. “It really wakes you up.”

Porthos snorts, pleased, and his own blood feels awake, as well, “And let me guess – you weren’t scared at all.”

The air still smells like melon, the carcass of it lying on the ground, smashed beneath so many boots. But Porthos can only focus on the stale smell of Aramis’ breath against his cheek. He hasn’t stopped touching him once since the gun rang out, either draped across his shoulders or hugging him. His mouth found its way to his ear once to whisper out something – too loudly, like a dull roar against his ear – or pressed against his neck, his breath damp and distracting. 

Aramis laughs, careless and beautiful, and his arm tightens around him, sparks in his eyes from the flickering lanterns around them as he looks up at Porthos and says, “Not for a moment.” He adds, quiet, his words weighted, “I trust you with my life.” 

“Me too,” Porthos whispers, the laughter falling from his eyes and settling into something more serious as he looks at Aramis. 

Aramis looks at him, too, then flickers his eyes around – briefly, to check to make sure they really are alone. There’s shouts and hollers in the distance, past the gates, men searching for more drink or women. But for now, there is only Aramis. There is only Aramis studying his face and then looking at his mouth. 

It’s as simple as that, in the end. Aramis looks at him. Then he leans in – just as brief – and kisses him hard. He’s off-center from his mouth, though, catches more beard than lip. He sinks his head back, staying close, looking terrified as he stares up at Porthos. For the first time that night, he doesn’t look peacefully drunk or soulfully flirtatious. Instead, he looks small and uncertain, hovering on the edge of something – waiting for Porthos. 

Porthos slides a hand to touch at his hip, and then he leans in and kisses him for the second time. Closer this time. Surer. 

They part and Aramis bubbles out a small, disbelieving laugh – helplessly relieved. He slides a hand up, breathless, his breath stuttering out of him in bird-fragile little wisps, and he touches Porthos’ cheek, thumb dragging over his scar. They kiss a third time. And Porthos lets his heavy heart sink, sink down, further down – lets his forehead nudge against Aramis’, breathes out his name and kisses him back, kisses him again and again. He feels Aramis’ hands in his hair. Their noses bump. There’s too much teeth. 

Porthos mumbles, drunk and uncertain and suddenly feeling very adrift, “You let me shoot a melon off your head.”

“I did,” Aramis answers, breathless, against his mouth. Their noses bump again and Aramis makes a sound suspiciously like a giggle. Then he just starts laughing – and Porthos loves his laugh, loves making him laugh, loves hearing that laugh. Loves—

He catches Aramis’ face harder and kisses him, clumsy and uncertain but unwilling to stop, unwilling for this to be the last, unwilling to let it be forgotten because they’ve both had far too much to drink. Doesn’t want this end. His heart is rising up high in his chest, pressing against his throat. There is that low, twisting heat in his gut, accompanying him for weeks now and he now recognizes as lust, as desire, as need. 

Aramis starts playing with his earring, and it’s incredibly distracting and he shifts closer to him, presses against him. 

“Porthos,” Aramis whispers, and his name sounds beautiful on his tongue, like the most perfect sound in the world, like it is worth saying. He starts playing with his hair, touches at it and runs his fingers down to trace along his jaw. Porthos shivers, but doesn’t close his eyes – doesn’t want to miss looking at him. 

“We’ve had a lot to drink,” Porthos offers, terrified that Aramis will draw back, pull away, push back. 

Aramis just melts into him when Porthos runs his hands up his back. Aramis’ thumb finds his mouth, traces along his thick bottom lip. 

“You’re so handsome,” Aramis says, which isn’t an answer, and Porthos laughs – just as he always does, disbelieving, embarrassed. “The most beautiful man in the regiment. After me, naturally.”

“Naturally,” Porthos answers, amused. He leans in, hesitates, and Aramis closes the distance – kisses him back, slow and gentle, like he’s just learning how to move against him. 

Where the other kisses were tentative, hurried, this one is slow and sure. They kiss and they kiss – learn each other, learn the sound of their breath, the bristle of their beards, the slide of their mouths against one another. Aramis clings to him as if afraid Porthos will fall away. Porthos holds him just as close. 

“Porthos,” Aramis whispers out against his mouth. 

His answer is Porthos dragging him in closer, deepening the kiss, touching at him wherever he can reach. 

“Wait,” Aramis whispers out again, pushes back. Porthos stills, staring at him in a shocked surety that Aramis will end it, step away, drift away to forget in the haze of alcohol. But then Aramis contradicts himself by kissing Porthos again. And again. “Wait,” he whispers out, touches Porthos’ chest, slides his hands down over the buttons of his coat. “We should – we’re outside.” 

“Yeah,” Porthos mumbles back and kisses him again.

Aramis laughs, slightly delirious, and steps back. He grabs Porthos’ hands. Tugs him forward. 

“Come on,” he invites and of course Porthos follows him and nearly slams his head against the stairs they’re hiding underneath for his troubles. 

 

-

 

They wind their way through the garrison courtyard, everyone mostly too drunk to do much of anything else but wave or call for more drinks. They walk shoulder-to-shoulder, Aramis’ arm warm across Porthos’ shoulder. The moon is bright and the hallway leading towards their rooms is empty. 

They both pause at Aramis’ door. Porthos shifts from foot to foot. He could stop this here, Aramis thinks, he could slip away and pretend it’s drink and that would be that. He could do so much here. He could drag him in. He could kiss him. 

He could turn away. He could pretend. 

He swallows down. 

“I should go, then,” Aramis whispers and looks up at Porthos in the light of the lamp. He opens his door and there’s the flickering light of the candle he left burning, dancing across his face. 

“Yeah?” Porthos asks. It’s hardly a question but it’s enough. Aramis sees the moment Porthos’ expression closes off, turns to something broken and pained. That moment is enough. 

Aramis reaches up, pulls Porthos in, drags him back so that Aramis’ back hits the wall and he kisses him again and again, reaches up to take his shoulders as an afterthought, pulling Porthos down against him, swipes his thumb against the tendons of Porthos’ neck, then up to trace at the scar upon his cheek. Porthos’ mouth is warm and open, the taste of ale and wine. Aramis doesn’t feel frantic or afraid anymore, not in the way he imagined he would. Porthos is warm and solid, teeth and tongue. He touches his mouth to the corner of Aramis’, draws out a small laugh from him. Aramis’ hand is firm on his hip and his mouth gentles against Porthos’ searching lips. 

“Porthos,” he whispers, because that is easy to say now that he can say it, now that he can add the weight he’s always left off, add the longing. 

Aramis feels like he’s floating, feels like he’ll never come down. They stumble their way through and tumble through Aramis’ room. Porthos is folding Aramis up into his arms and Aramis goes with him, oh of course he does, kisses him like he’ll never get enough of it, like he’ll never get tired of it. 

He can feel Porthos’ mouth against his, feels him licking into his mouth and Aramis’ arms come up and wrap around his neck, drag him down closer to keep kissing him. He sinks into that kiss, Porthos running his hands down his back, over his hips and up along his sides. He hears the sound of Porthos’ breath, the tail end of a moan he tries to pull back. He can taste the wine on his tongue. He can smell the bite of leather, the tang of melon – and he giggles into their kiss, delirious with it, frightened with this feeling. 

There’s a grin in Porthos’ eyes, though, when Aramis draws back. He feels the corner of his own mouth quirk up and he says, “Happy birthday.”

Porthos snorts, growls out his name in a way that leaves Aramis turning to mush from the inside out. He anchors himself down against Porthos, feels that same swell of desire, and they keep kissing – pressed up against that wall. 

There is adrenaline and desire in the air. But, glinting with the sharp edge of uncertainty, is the reality of what they’re doing. He draws back. He looks at Porthos. 

The drink is wearing off a bit. He can tell that much and he doesn’t want it to end, doesn’t want to see the moment when Porthos withdraws and that is that. Porthos’ hands push up under Aramis’ shirt, palms flat against his chest and the heels of his hands sliding over his scars. Aramis’ mouth parts and he breathes out. 

“Porthos,” he sighs. He is drunk and he is sticky from melon, and he doesn’t care. He touches at Porthos’ shoulders, drags himself up to kiss him lightly a few time, peppers kisses over his face – traces over the scar above his eye with his mouth. He says again, softer, fonder, “Porthos.” 

“Is this… this is what you want, right?” Porthos asks, and he sounds so unsure. His hands withdraw and settle on his hips. 

Aramis pauses, presses their foreheads together, and laughs out as he braces his hands against the wall behind Porthos, leans into his space. “Yes,” he whispers. “More than anything – I want you so much.” 

He keeps looking at Porthos and feels those big, strong hands stroking up over his shoulders and down over his back. He lays a fierce, sucking kiss against Porthos’ mouth, leaning into his space. 

“We’re drunk,” Porthos mutters.

“It’s not the drink,” Aramis affirms. “I’ve – this is something I’ve thought about a lot, lately.” 

“I figured,” Porthos admits. Aramis’ eyes come up to meet his face and there’s a look of strange wonder there. He wants to shoo away that look, shoo away Porthos’ constant surprise that someone should want him, cherish him, think of him. 

Aramis cups his jaw and draws back, looking at him for a long moment. Porthos is watching him, eyes wide, breath hushed in his throat.

“Don’t be scared,” Aramis says, to himself and to Porthos.

Porthos’ expression flickers and he stares at him, level and collected within a blink. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

It is so fiercely certain in how he says it, that tiniest flicker to his words that betrays the opposite, betrays his wish that it were so. Aramis’ heart flickers in his chest and he nods his head just barely, eyelids lowering as he looks at him. 

“Then kiss me again,” he suggests – and Porthos does so. 

They part again soon enough, Aramis drops his hands down and touches at his chest, traces down his arms. He’s shaking all over and Porthos leans in close, his nose brushing against his cheek, lips over his jaw, the spikes of his beard. 

“You don’t have to be scared, either,” Porthos tells him and Aramis laughs out, broken and uncertain – because he is, God, he is. He’s so afraid. Afraid to lose this, to lose him. Afraid it’ll end. Afraid he’ll leave. God, but everyone leaves in the end—

His hands fall to Porthos’ coat and he undoes the buttons one at a time, strips him down to his shirtsleeves like him. 

“I thought you’d… been acting strangely lately,” Porthos admits. “What was the problem again, you said? Couldn’t resist temptation?”

“Something like that,” Aramis laughs, his head buzzing and fuzzing out from drink. He touches Porthos’ face again. “You are everything, Porthos.” 

The sound Porthos makes is close to a sob and he drags Aramis in again, kisses him as though he could just continue doing that and nothing else. With a last soft kiss, Aramis pulls back.

“This temptation, then?” Porthos asks.

“No,” Aramis whispers, touches his face, feels calmer than he has in so long. He drags his fingertip over his scar, his face so familiar and dear. “No, it’s – it isn’t that. It’s…”

He can’t say it. He’s not ready to say it yet. But the word settles in his heart and nestles there. He knows what it is. 

He kisses him – thinks he could spend the rest of his life kissing him, if it would always feel like this. Like breath and life, like coming home and shelter. 

Porthos' desire is a tangible thing, something weighted against their teeth. Aramis can feel the full weight of it as they kiss. He loses all of his words, even the ones he thinks he might need in the morning, when he sits upon a pew before his God. But even then, he knows he will not be repentant of this moment. This is not temptation. It is—

It is something else entirely. 

Porthos breaks the kiss and presses their foreheads together, out of breath and steadying himself. When Porthos opens his eyes again, he finds Aramis watching him and Aramis takes only one step back, tugs him along, and that’s all he needs to make his message clear. 

They fall into Aramis’ bed, so familiar and small. Porthos pushes the blankets aside, leans down over him – bites at his lip and then kisses his jaw. Licks away a touch of melon against his cheek. 

Aramis looks at him, arches a little, whispers out, “Don’t regret me,” when he means to say _don’t regret this._

Porthos looks at him for a long moment, expression soft and gentle, and he says, “Never.” 

They stumble through their words, their movements, and Aramis remembers little else beyond Porthos’ hands gentle upon him even as he pins him down, holds him down, brackets his knees around Aramis’ hips. 

He remembers this, though: remembers shifting so he’s leaning up beneath Porthos, reaches up to Porthos. His hands shake a little until he touches that familiar, scarred face. 

Then they steady and his heart takes on a new rhythm. 

And then he has no time to be afraid. Only happy.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Is this how it's always going to be now?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly shorter chapter to compensate for the mammoth chapter last time. Not entirely happy with this chapter, but I'm tired of fiddling with it. I'm hoping to get the next, and final, chapter up soon - but I've hit a bit of a roadblock on it. Thank you everyone in advance for your patience. ♥

When Porthos wakes up the morning after his birthday, his mind all shriveled up with wine and morning-blurry, he can’t do much beyond groan into his mattress. His head is too tight with wine, his thoughts nothing but fuzz. He closes his eyes tighter against the sun in the window and lets out a breath in slow increments. He could fall back asleep, perhaps. Sleep away the morning. Perhaps even the fully day. It’d be as easy as that.

He hears a breathless, nervous little laugh beside him, feels the blankets shift around him, a tug at his side as the coarse fabric slips away. There’s a breath, a quiet silence in which words could be spoken but aren’t. Porthos manages to open up one eye and then the other. He breathes out and turns his head. 

Aramis is lying on his side, facing him, all curled up and sleepy. He looks sleepy, belying the nervous way he looks at Porthos, now that he notices him awake. He looks just as hungover as Porthos feels. Aramis looks at him for a moment, opens his mouth as if to speak – and instead gives him a little smile. His smile is tentative, face cushioned against his hand as he looks at Porthos, waiting. 

Waiting, Porthos realizes, for Porthos to recoil, to back away, to stop. It is the smile of a man who’s waiting for that end. 

“Morning,” Porthos greets, voice quiet and graveled out with his hangover. And then he smiles at Aramis, knows it’s only a touch away from being downright dopey – and unable to care that it is. 

He watches Aramis’ expression melt into something gentler. Relieved. It lights up his entire face – makes him look years and years younger. 

“… You remember last night?” Aramis asks, cautious, not moving – watching Porthos carefully, studying him for any signs of disgust or regret. He won’t find any. 

Porthos lifts a hand and rubs at his eye, trying to clear away the grogginess. He lifts his head a fraction, and takes a look around the room – their clothes thrown every which way, the bed mushed up, Aramis – quiet and unsure, naked beside him. 

“Yeah,” Porthos grunts and because he can see that quiet fear in Aramis’ eyes, he reaches out and runs the backs of his fingers over his cheek, soft and intimate. “You let me shoot a melon off your head. Like a fool.” 

“I was never in any danger,” Aramis says, cavalier in the face of potential gruesome death in the name of a part. His voice is also forcefully light, playful – trying to keep calm. Aramis shifts closer, leans into the touch of Porthos’ hand. His own comes up, curling around Porthos’ wrist and just holding there. And because he is ridiculous, because he is offhand in all ways but his own relief, he asks, his voice hopeful, “And then…?” 

Porthos lifts his eyebrows. “We’re naked in bed together. I don’t think I’m that stupid.” 

Aramis makes a soft sound, squints at him around the morning light. 

“You’re not stupid at all,” he protests, lips pursing up. 

Porthos laughs, “And _then_ , we got back here and we fucked.” 

“Aptly put.” Aramis’ smile is quiet, still, uncertain. “You’re still here,” Aramis says, somewhat in wonder, and it makes something tug down hard at Porthos’ chest – a deep sadness that such a statement could make Aramis seem so disbelieving. He would spend the rest of his life making sure Aramis never needed to fear abandonment again, if he could. 

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees. “Is that alright?” 

Aramis laughs, his eyes looking a little glassy for a moment before he shakes his head and moves to cup Porthos’ face gently in his hands, strokes his thumbs along his cheeks. Porthos smiles at him, slow and sleepy. Aramis smiles back, and it’s more real this time – warms up in his eyes and in his cheeks. 

“I… of course it’s alright. I’d worried you wouldn’t be here when I woke up,” Aramis admits, quiet, but more certain now that Porthos makes no signs of leaving the bed. 

“Nope. Still here.” 

“So you are,” Aramis agrees, quiet. 

To demonstrate his complete lack of motivation to run away from Aramis, Porthos curls an arm around his waist and draws him in closer. Aramis breathes out in a rush and goes willingly, pressing up to him, hands on his cheeks still and drawing Porthos down so that their foreheads press together. Aramis’ eyes close and he smiles more, comforted in Porthos’ presence. 

Aramis looks honest, and actually happy, when he says, “I’ve wanted this for – a little while now. I didn’t… I didn’t know if you felt the same.” 

Porthos yawns, and mumbles an apology when Aramis’ nose wrinkles up at the onslaught of his morning breath. Aramis accepts the apology graciously, though, when he brushes his nose against his in a display that, really, should be revoltingly sentimental and yet just makes Porthos feel warm all over, smiling stupidly and returning the gesture. 

Years from now, Aramis will tease him about this – will coo out that Porthos’ nose is cute, just like the rest of him. Porthos will protest, loud enough and long enough, that the only way to get Aramis to stop laughing will be to take him to bed and distract him. Such teasing, such jokes, will only come once Aramis feels fully himself again. It will be when he’s sure, mostly sure, that Porthos’ arms wrapped around him won’t be the last time they see one another. That is when, fully and completely, they understand what they mean to each other. But that is not for many years yet. 

For right now, the morning is slow and lazy, and Porthos feels his heart thud with Aramis’ honest words, because he knows what it means, he knows what it does for Aramis. He slides his hand up his back, cups the back of his head, curls his fingers through his hair – keeps him close as he smiles at him, slow and warm. 

“Everyone wants you, Aramis,” he says, “I believe last night you were saying something about being the most beautiful man in the regiment.” 

Aramis groans, but flushes at the delivered praise. He drops his hands from his face just so he can curl his arms around his neck, lean in closer still, his mouth brushing against Porthos’ own in something that might be a kiss. “Not _everyone_ wants me. Close to everyone, perhaps…” 

Porthos is grinning, feels both overwhelmed and a little smug when he says, “ _You_ wanted _me_ , though.” 

“Yes,” Aramis snorts out. “Is that really so surprising?” And then he must see something in Porthos’ expression because his face slackens with understanding and leans in closer. “Porthos,” he says. “Anyone would want you, if they have any sense. Of _course_ I wanted you.” 

He then leans in to kiss him, slow and intent, like kissing Porthos in the early morning light after his birthday is the only thing he wants to do today – which, possibly, is the only thing he wants to do. He kisses Porthos like he’s still longing for him, like he’s savoring this moment, still waiting, still fearing it will go away. 

Porthos shifts, pulls Aramis with him so he’s half on top of him, and leans up to kiss him – kisses him again and again, because he can, because he wants to, because Aramis wants it, too. Aramis melts against him, sighs out against his mouth, and kisses him back. 

“I really hadn’t planned it’d end up like that,” Aramis admits once they break apart. Aramis skims his hands down over Porthos’ chest, tracing along the ridges of his muscles, the soft curve of his belly, the lines of his scars. 

“Amazing what alcohol can do for motivation,” Porthos agrees. He pets a hand through Aramis’ hair, savors the touch, savors the way Aramis’ face goes slack with pleasure when he tugs a little. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you in the head.”

Aramis grins, face lighting up with that promise of danger again – a remarkable danger, one that he can control, one that he can trust. Stronger and better than fears left out in the woods. He leans into Porthos’ touch, makes a soft sigh when Porthos tugs again, gently, thumb rubbing circles against his scalp. 

“You’d never hurt me,” Aramis says again. 

“… How would you have gone about it, then? If you didn’t plan it last night.” 

“What?”

“Kissing me. This,” Porthos clarifies. 

Aramis ducks his head and presses a sloppy kiss upon Porthos’ collarbone and then nuzzles up against his neck, each movement slow and savoring. Porthos sighs out, relaxing beneath him as Aramis shifts to straddle him better, leaning down against him chest to chest. He brushes his hands over Porthos’ face, into his hair. 

Aramis smiles down at him, tentative and unsure. “I… don’t know if I would have.”

He’s bracing himself, waiting for Porthos’ anger, but Porthos understands the sentiment – of being unsure, of feeling unworthy, of not knowing what to expect. His hands settle at Aramis’ back, follows the dip of his spine. Aramis arches a little, despite himself, and breathes out a pleased sigh when one hand kneads at the back of his neck. 

“But you did want me,” Aramis says, purposefully light to hide his surprise at the fact, “So it would have been a waste to be a coward.” 

“You’re not a coward,” Porthos interrupts and Aramis gives him a self-deprecating smile in reply. Porthos shakes his head. “You’re the bravest man I know.” 

Aramis’ lip quirks up into a heartfelt smile, if still disbelieving, and he brushes his thumb down along Porthos’ scar, sweeps it down to touch at the corner of Porthos’ mouth. As if to say that, no, Porthos is the brave one. Porthos turns his head to kiss the thumbprint and Aramis’ smile makes the corners of his eyes crinkle up in pleasure. 

“Alright,” Aramis relents. “I’d have bought you drinks – which, I’ll add, I did last night – and we’d get some food. Play cards.” 

“Drinks and dinner?” Porthos asks, and laughs, “You’d seduce me, then.” 

“I’d let you win the cards, too,” Aramis teases, as if he wouldn’t be beaten each and every time by Porthos, with or without cheating. 

Porthos laughs, runs his hands down over Aramis, if only to gauge his reactions, to document each sound he makes – a sigh when he touches his back, a huff when he cups his hip, a thready exhale that might be a moan when he tugs at his hair. 

“You’d probably give me that look you sometimes get, too.” 

“What look?” Aramis asks, looking amused. 

Porthos shakes his head, unable to articulate it. “It’s just… a look you get. When you’re flirting. You tip your chin down and your eyes get all hot.”

Aramis purses his lips up in thought and then dismisses it just as quickly. “Nonsense.” 

Porthos’ heart, the treacherous thing that it is, twists up inside his chest when Aramis smiles next, warm and inviting. He laughs out a little and tells Aramis, “You don’t need to seduce me.” 

“No,” Aramis whispers out, traces his fingertips along Porthos’ shoulders. “It seems that I really didn’t.” 

“I’m always open to it if you felt you needed to try, though,” Porthos offers with a one shoulder shrug. “I do like food.” 

Aramis laughs aloud, looks young and delighted, happy. He looks _happy._ It is too early in the morning, they are both hungover, and their skin is sticky with sweat and other things. Porthos’ heart is clenching up in his chest as he stares up at Aramis, who arches over him against his window, sunlight in his hair, laughter in his eyes. 

And he knows. 

“Now I’ll just end up regretting offering it,” Aramis is teasing, no truth to the words, only that heavy knowledge that he is happy and there is nothing about Porthos he can regret. 

And Porthos knows. His breath wisps out of him and he lifts a hand up to cup Aramis’ cheek. Aramis’ eyes soften and he leans into that touch, turns his head a little to press a kiss to the heel of his palm, the tendons at his wrist. 

“Oh yeah?” he asks, laughing to show that he knows Aramis is teasing, and asks, “How badly you going to regret it?” 

Porthos traces the shape of Aramis’ mouth with his thumb. He rested his thumb against Aramis’ mouth, without pressure, just waiting. 

“Tremendously,” Aramis obliges, and his lips shift, part beneath Porthos’ thumb – a promise, an offering. His eyes are bright, his cheeks are flush. He is no ghost. He is a man pressing down against Porthos, weighted with life, lighted from the inside out. 

“You bought me the expensive liquor,” Porthos says. 

“I did,” Aramis agrees, laughing. “So go easy on my purse-strings when it comes to seducing you properly, my dear Porthos.” 

Porthos snorts out a laugh, drags his thumb along his bottom lip. “Already backing out on the seduction. I’m not a cheap conquest, you know.” 

Aramis laughs again, nips at his thumb when it gets too close to his teeth. “I’ve made a terrible mistake, clearly.”

“Saying that loses its meaning when you smile like that,” Porthos says around a grin. “I’m unconvinced.” 

Aramis hums out thoughtfully. He traces over Porthos’ scar and leans in closer, kissing the corner of his mouth and whispering out, “You should kiss me, Monsieur.” 

Porthos obliges, kissing him long and slow, deepening it when Aramis makes something akin to a whine against his mouth. When they draw back again, it’s only because they both start grinning too much to continue kissing anything but teeth. 

Aramis is thoughtful as he pets a hand through Porthos’ hair, traces along the shell of his ear. “You know… We still have a couple hours before breakfast. And I have a feeling most of the regiment will be out of commission until the late afternoon. Do you want to…?”

Porthos’ grin is downright lecherous when he interrupts, “Like you have to ask.” 

Aramis laughs and then Porthos pulls him down to him.

 

-

 

Aramis expects there’ll be some grand change between the two of them after Porthos’ birthday – but for all that it felt like the world had shifted under his feet, everything else remains the same. Porthos covers his patrol on the lower streets and Aramis stays up on the upper street market, with the one exception that Dupont and Lescont return to their usual patrols and Aramis guides along the new recruits through their baby steps. Aramis and Porthos eat breakfast together, depart for the day, and meet up again at the end of the day – eating dinner, going to the tavern if the mood strikes them, or, more typically, retiring to Aramis’ room so Porthos can practice writing. 

The first night, Porthos hesitates at the door once the lesson is done, shifting as if to leave. Aramis reaches out and draws him back in, and they sleep in the same bed together as before. Aramis doesn’t get any nightmares, but there is comfort in being held, in being in Porthos’ arms – as if he can belong, as if he can be happy. 

“I didn’t think I could feel this again,” Aramis admits, long after the sun has set, long after the Paris streets have cleared out, and Aramis is above Porthos in his bed, their fingers interlaced and sweat making Aramis’ hair cling to his brow as he looks down at Porthos, both sated and heaving in deep breaths around their pleasure. 

Porthos, kind and gentle and wonderful man that he is, merely tips his head to the side and leans up to catch his mouth in a soft kiss. It’s enough to make Aramis melt – shamefully for his long lost reputation as a roguish lover, most things Porthos does makes Aramis melt. _Porthos_ makes Aramis melt – as saccharine as the sentiment is. 

“It’s good you can,” Porthos says, and doesn’t say it as a tease, as some kind of implication that the sex is good. Instead, he says it like a prayer, touches at Aramis’ face and then slides into his hair, kisses him gently. “You deserve to feel, Aramis.” 

Aramis shivers, leans into him, and whispers, “You’re a good man, Porthos. A good friend.” 

The patrol on the upper street market proves rather tedious, even more so now that he feels slightly like himself again. He’s not sure how long the captain intends to torture him with this easing back into the regiment. Despite the strange twist of fear he feels at the idea of returning to the forests – the last two times have not proved overly successful – he still itches for some kind of fight, some kind of conflict, some kind of danger. Dodging around the street Madame Moreau lives on is not his idea of a fun danger, for example. 

Sleeping with Porthos proves its own danger, of course. He knows what it means – knew what it meant even when he was with Marsac – how calculated and careful they must be in their steps, lest they be discovered. But there is a thrill, too, in knowing this side of Porthos that no one else does. There is a thrill in knowing every part of his skin, every sound he makes brushed up against his ear, the feel of his lips upon his thighs, the taste of his tongue. It is torture to not be able to reach out to Porthos in daylight hours, must keep it calm and subtle – something Aramis has never excelled in. Now, draping his arm around Porthos’ shoulders, touching his arm – it isn’t enough. And it feels too much like a brand, that he is too obvious, that he is putting Porthos in a danger. To lose Porthos, to endanger Porthos – he would never forgive himself. 

And yet he cannot stand the idea of being away from him. Perhaps he is too reliant. Perhaps he is too needy. He can’t be sure. He tries so hard not to think of Marsac, and yet he phantoms in at the strangest moments, a ghost sitting between him and Porthos. He tries to imagine what it is about himself that Porthos finds so worthwhile, that lets Porthos play the support to him so often. Porthos is his own man – Porthos should be happy, not tethered down.

And yet. And yet, each night, when Porthos holds him down, or he arches up over Porthos – he cannot regret it. Not truly. Not when, in the aftermath, Porthos gets sleepy and boneless, and nuzzles up to him and whispers out his name like it hurts him to not say it. He cannot regret that. 

And then, one day, Porthos plants his hands on the tabletop where Aramis sits, waiting for his recruits to show up so he can get going, and he says, “Come on.”

Aramis looks up at him, lifts his brows in question. Porthos grins at him. Aramis sighs out, “What?” 

“You’re coming with me,” Porthos says, produces a slip of paper with his day’s orders written on it. Aramis first feels a thrill that Porthos could read the order all on his own, and then he secondly feels a thrill (foolish, such a fool’s thrill) that Porthos would recognize Aramis’ own name as something noteworthy. 

Porthos flattens out the orders to show him, and his fingertip touches at where Aramis’ name is clearly written in the captain’s long sprawl. Porthos is grinning at him when he looks up. 

“Come on,” Porthos says again. “Let’s get out of here.” 

It isn’t just the two of them – of course it isn’t – but it’s a start and being with Porthos amongst two other men is nothing, it might as well be _just_ him and Porthos for all Aramis pays attention to the other two musketeers. 

They spend the next three days tailing an aide to the Spanish ambassador. The man doesn’t stray near court proceedings but sticks to lower streets and some of the wealthier homes of Spanish and French dignitaries, instead – always hovering near the ambassador’s French estate. It is, of course, boring work – favors stealth and subtlety more than fighting. They’re meant to follow the aide, make sure he isn’t up to anything suspect, anything unsavory that could be linked back to the ambassador. It’s dull work, but the company is nice, at least. And it’s certainly better than ducking behind beautiful women whenever he happens to see Madame or Mademoiselle Moreau passing by along the street.

It’s the third day of rather uneventful tailing, and the aide is taking a different path today. Aramis doesn’t recognize the direction but after about a quarter of an hour, Porthos stops abruptly and shakes his head. Aramis nearly bumps into him for his troubles. 

He lets out a little, “Oof,” and then, “Porthos—”

“We can’t go this way,” he says, frowning. “He’s heading towards the Court of Miracles.” 

Aramis blinks once, then looks to Porthos quickly, gauging his reaction. He is purposefully blank and does not meet Aramis’ eye. The two musketeers with them, Lacan and Dubois, don’t seem overly concerned. Lacan even snorts.

“Why would he be going _there_?” he asks. They resume walking again, so their target doesn’t get too far out of sight. 

The Paris streets down this way are crowded, smelling of waste and roaming with thin animals and thinner children. The air smells putrid and Lacan shifts uneasily as their target gets further and further down the street. 

“A whore?” Dubois guesses. 

Aramis glances at Porthos again but Porthos frowns deeper, shaking his head. “He could afford better, safer places. You only go to the whores in the Court if you have nothing better you can afford. They’ll more likely steal you blind, anyway.” 

Lacan snorts a little, not unkindly, and turns his head to squint at Porthos. “Why do you know so much? Have a bad experience with the women?”

“Shut your mouth, Lacan,” Aramis snaps before he can hold it back. Lacan looks affronted, as if Aramis has hit him, but Aramis doesn’t apologize. He looks back at Porthos and says, “We can’t go in there after him.” 

“And why not?” Dubois asks. 

“We look like musketeers,” Porthos says. “We’re not beggars.” 

“So take off the pauldrons,” Lacan suggests, looking sour still from Aramis’ reprimand. 

“We’ll still be noticed,” Aramis cuts in before Porthos can explain further. “We’re dressed as well as the king himself as far as the Court is concerned.” 

“He’s getting away,” Lacan mutters, looking down the street as their target slips further and further towards the entrance of the Court. They watch as he moves, curling his cloak around him to hide his own finery. 

“He’ll come back out this way,” Porthos says. “The only other way out is going through the center of it, and that’ll be too dangerous for someone like him. He’d pass too close near the King of the Court. He’ll come back from whatever he’s doing.” 

“So we’re just going to _not_ go in?” Dubois asks, disbelieving. “He’s right there. Let’s just grab him.”

Out of sight of the other two, Aramis shifts a little closer to Porthos, touches his back, fingers splayed out. Porthos is tense and uncomfortable beside him, even if it doesn’t show in his face, but something eases behind his eyes at that touch. 

“We’ll wait,” Aramis says, so Porthos doesn’t have to. He looks up at Porthos. “Should we send someone to watch the other side, just in case?” 

Dubois volunteers and sets out underway to loop back around at the further entrance to the Court. Aramis, Porthos, and Lacan remain at the main entrance, assuming that the trader will return from this end. It, naturally, involves a lot of waiting. Lacan gets antsy, wanting to blaze in there and find him, not understanding what a labyrinth those far walls prove once within the Court. Porthos stares at the entrance but seems a thousand worlds away, so close to the place he once lived. Aramis realizes, in that moment, that this is the closest Porthos’ ever come back to this place before today. Before today, he hadn’t strayed anywhere near this side of Paris. 

“Why do you know so much about the Court?” Lacan asks, petulant. 

“That doesn’t matter,” Aramis snaps out before Porthos can say a word, his hand firm on Porthos’ back, out of Lacan’s sight. Aramis rubs a small circle with his thumb, likely hardly felt through layers of leather and Porthos’ cloak. Lacan scowls at Aramis’ mood but says nothing.

Porthos, though, does say after a moment, “I had business there once, that’s all. Don’t worry about it, Lacan.” 

Lacan is young, and curious, a newer musketeer but a skilled one. He is also not used to being scolded and so he spends the rest of the afternoon with the two of them in a moody silence. The hours tick by and their target doesn’t reappear. 

“Maybe he did go out the other side?” Aramis asks. They have no way to know how Dubois fares. 

“I can check?” Lacan asks, kicking his feet out at the scuff of the ground. “The smell’s unbearable here.” 

“It’ll be worse over there,” Porthos tells him, but Lacan seems intent on getting away. He heads out to track down Dubois, check in with him and then report back. If he doesn’t return within the hour, Porthos and Aramis are to assume that he and Dubois took off to follow the ambassador’s aide. 

Once alone, Aramis leans more heavily against Porthos’ shoulder. “Are you alright?” 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, and his face lightens up into a smile when he looks back at Aramis. 

“It’s been a while since you’ve been here?” Aramis guesses and Porthos nods his agreement. Aramis rubs his hand down Porthos’ back, perhaps too friendly, too intimate a gesture, but they are in a Godless part of Paris, so perhaps all will be well. 

“It’s fine,” Porthos mutters, sounds miserable, shying away from Aramis’ touch. It hurts, of course, but he also knows it’s not about him. Porthos looks down at the mud and grime caking their boots. “I just… I didn’t think I’d ever have to be back here.”

“I know,” Aramis whispers, but doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what he could possibly do to comfort him. 

They lapse into a long silence, and speak very little after that. 

It’s around half an hour later when Porthos looks up and swears. “There he is.” 

Aramis looks and, just the two of them, they scramble off to a side street so that the aide won’t see them loitering around. Porthos presses Aramis up to the wall, blocks him and his cloak from view, so it is just Porthos leaning against the wall and watching as he passes.

“He’s got something,” Porthos says, watching as he passes by and backing away from Aramis only once the aide is several feet ahead of them. “A ledger.” 

“Do we take it? Or follow him?” Aramis asks, already stepping out. Lacan and Dubois are probably on their way back now that it’s clear their target didn’t go in that direction, and he and Porthos step out into the street again to follow him. 

“… I could get it,” Porthos decides after several steps following the Spanish ambassador’s aide. “Look at him – he’s young. Sloppy.” 

Aramis makes a sound and disagrees. “We can’t start a fight this far out.”

“No,” Porthos agrees and then corrects, “But there’ll be no fight if he has no reason to fear. I can steal it from him.” 

Aramis looks at Porthos in confusion. He knows Porthos’ sleight-of-hand is the envy of anyone who plays cards with him, but a ledger tucked into a pocket is another thing entirely. He’s about to shake his head but Porthos is already removing his pauldron with skilled fingers, unhooking his sword to hand to Aramis. 

He pushes at Aramis into an alcove between the buildings and deposits his cloak into his arms. 

“Porthos,” Aramis warns, “Wait.” 

“It’s fine. This is child’s play,” Porthos dismisses, folding his stiff collar down over the scalloping of his leather coat. Aramis wants, suddenly, to reach out and touch him, to comfort him – although he doesn’t know why. There is something in Porthos’ face, the way he’s already shuttering himself shut. Becoming one of the Court. Becoming a nameless, wordless street urchin. 

“Porthos,” Aramis starts.

But Porthos is already walking ahead. Aramis watches, stunned, as Porthos transforms. Stripped from his uniform, hunching into himself – he becomes a different man entirely. He goes from tall and wide, taking up space, face bright and beautiful and smile impossible to ignore – to sinking into the crowd. He watches Porthos draw in a subtle hush of breath, then slope his shoulders down into himself, tip his chin down to the ground – and erases himself from memory, ceases to exist. 

Later, much later, Porthos will tell him these tricks – the trick to pick pocketing, the trick to stealing, the trick to tailing another and going unnoticed, it isn’t a matter of moving quick and desperate, to snatch what you need and run before someone can get a good look at you and remember your face. The true trick is to make yourself indistinguishable from all else around you – to make yourself not worth remembering. Porthos will laugh and smile and say that people like Aramis move through life assuming that every eye is upon them because, usually, it is. But that those born in the shadows learn early on how to make eyes skip past them, how to fade into the background, how to blend away and stop existing entirely – because it is done to them from the start, because they were born being unknown. 

When Porthos tells him this, Porthos will laugh, but it will not reach his eyes – and Aramis will hold him the rest of the night, will whisper out every little piece of Porthos that he loves, every part of him, how he noticed him from the very beginning, could always pick him out in the crowd even if they were separated for years. He will whisper every word of protest and encouragement that he can think of – spend every breath making sure Porthos knows how important he is to Aramis, how worthy he is to be alive, how he sees him every day, always. But that moment will not come until much later.

Instead here, on a busy, putrid Paris street, Aramis watches in a stunned, pained shock as Porthos becomes someone he is not – as Porthos becomes nothing but a beggar in the streets, slumped into himself, unnoticeable and unknown, unimportant and unexisting. Porthos, whom Aramis has only ever seen with his shoulders thrown back, taking up space, laughing louder and longer than anyone else in the room, fighting his way through every man until every man knew who he is. And now he is a nobody. 

A nobody who jostles against the aide and apologizes profusely. The man scowls at him, touches at where his purse still hangs, an automatic gesture, and scoffs before dismissing the broken man he sees before him. Aramis can’t make out the words, but it is undoubtedly an insult and he glowers darkly at Porthos before he turns away. He keeps walking, not bothering to check the ledger in his pocket, now in Porthos’ hand. 

And just like that, Aramis watches as Porthos straightens and becomes himself again. He breathes in and it fills up his chest. He closes his eyes, face slack and gentled – the scar stark across his eye and unknitted brow. Aramis is quiet and uncertain, can’t think of what to say – can never think of what to say to properly comfort this man who deserves the world – and goes to him soon after. Porthos opens his eyes and looks at him.

“See?” he says, voice quiet. “Child’s play.”

Aramis offers him a weak smile and takes the ledger. Porthos smiles back, briefly. But the light stays from his eyes even long after they return to the garrison and return the ledger to Treville. 

 

-

 

That night, after reading lessons have devolved into just silence, Porthos is still looking quiet and uncertain. Aramis shifts close to him, reaches out, covers his hand in his.

“Porthos,” he begins.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Porthos interrupts, not unkindly, but does turn his head to look at Aramis. “It’s – it was nothing, alright?” 

“It bothered you,” Aramis protests, but says no more – wanting to respect that Porthos isn’t ready, doesn’t want to be ready, to talk about this with him. He tells himself to not let it sting, that it isn’t about him – but about Porthos. He lifts his hand and touches Porthos’ cheek, traces that familiar scar across that familiar face. 

“It… brought back memories,” Porthos admits. “That’s all.” 

Aramis nods, his hand uncertain upon Porthos’ cheek. He almost draws it back, but then Porthos covers his hand with his. 

“I think you’re amazing,” Aramis whispers out. “In all ways.” 

There’s a flicker of a smile across Porthos’ mouth and he leans into the touch.

Aramis leans in closer, breathing out. As forcefully as he can manage while still keeping his voice gentle, he says, “You are a good man, and a good musketeer.” 

This time, Porthos does smile, curling their fingers together. 

 

-

 

The ledger, after being given to Treville for inspection, reveals some kind of plot involving the possibility of Spanish soldiers within French borders. Treville doesn’t give many details – and when does he ever, honestly – and it seems the matter might go on to someone of higher standing, the king or the Cardinal. In the end, though, Treville has Porthos and Aramis, and a group of other seasoned musketeers, prepare for a two week mission that goes well beyond Paris and towards the Western shores of France. Aramis wished for adventure, perhaps, but it all seems a little beyond him – especially in light of some kind of national disaster. Still, Aramis is a good choice if only for his skills in Spanish. He’s only grateful that Porthos will be with him, even if he fears for his safety all the same. 

The ride out towards the rendezvous is uneventful, fortunately, and Porthos stays near his side whenever they pass through wooded areas. Aramis much prefers the open fields, not only because he can see for miles, but because it is a pleasant ride in the bright summer sun. He sweats and spends most of the day thirsty, but it is a pleasant kind of feeling. Porthos grumbles beside him, never as pleased with the humidity and heat, but the breeze that kicks up as they ride certainly helps him from becoming too soured. 

Two days into the ride, the humidity grows too high and the clouds roll in. Aramis is having a pleasant enough trip, but once it starts raining, he _whines._

“It’s summer,” he insists, tugging his hat down so the brim covers his face better, watching raindrops roll off the brim and land on his saddle. “Why is it raining?” 

“Are you honestly asking or just complaining?” Porthos asks, more amused than concerned which is, truthfully, incredibly cruel of his friend. There are raindrops streaming down off the tails of his bandana and he has never looked more handsome than he does in this moment, drenched in the rain but grinning at him. Aramis also hates him a little for seeming so unconcerned about the rain. 

“Porthos,” he whines, loud enough that a few other musketeers glance his way and then off towards the front again. Some of them are used to Aramis, known him for years, well enough to know that he is whining because that is simply what he does. 

It rains for the rest of the ride and Aramis cannot stop whining until he is well under cover and in some slightly warm clothes. He stays huddled up next to Porthos and whines loudly to anyone who will listen. Which is, frankly, not very many. 

Porthos just laughs the entire time. 

 

-

 

The mission, all things considered, must have been going by too well because when a crossbow’s bolt whizzes by Aramis’ ear, all he can really think is, _it’s about time._

It’s strange that it should be his reaction. He remembers all those weeks ago, stuck in the woods, paralyzed and unable to move. He remembers Porthos stepping in and saving him, because Porthos is a wonderful and brave man, if reckless. 

Now, he doesn’t freeze up. Instead, he turns, draws his pistol, and moves to find cover with the other musketeers who scatter. He tips behind a tree and presses up against the bark. He sucks in a deep breath and twists around the trunk to get a good look through the trees, searching out targets. He shoots and, of course, hits his man. 

They’ve been ambushed in a narrow corridor of the forest, a natural break in the trees, leading out towards a cliff face. It is, of course, an ideal place to stake out an ambush for an unsuspecting group of musketeers. Aramis could almost be proud of himself for feeling so calm about the concept of an ambush, can recognize the strategy involved. Bottle-neck your opponents and force them further and further back towards the cliff’s edge, have them tumble down into the river below and that would be that. 

He reloads his pistol and twists his head around, searching out Porthos. He has abandoned his pistol – a good choice, considering his mediocre shot – and elected for swords instead. Satisfied that he is in no immediate danger, Aramis focuses on sniping out anyone who would dare aim for Porthos’ back. The trees are littered with Spanish or – whoever they might be. There is a buzz lingering in his blood, a thrill of danger and violence, and he finds himself smiling whenever an opponent drops down dead. 

Aramis’ earlier assessment is correct, however – there are more men than musketeers, and they are slowly being pushed backwards towards the edge of rock. It is a long drop, Aramis can tell now that he’s closer. Not something you could survive. 

Aramis eventually must abandon his pistol to his belt, as well, the time spent reloading too great to prevent someone coming upon him. It is just as well, with so much sparring he’s done with Porthos, he has never felt more prepared for this moment. Again, he does not hesitate, slicing with his rapier as he moves ever closer towards Porthos, intent on watching his back as Porthos dispatches two men at once with a well-aimed swipe of his sword and a kick to the groin. Perhaps that is why he can stay so calm. He needs to protect Porthos. Perhaps he is worthless, useless, when it comes to offer him sympathy and words of advice – but he can at least dedicate his sword to his protection, he can at least do this much to make sure Porthos is safe. 

Aramis laughs aloud watching Porthos’ fight, and Porthos glances over his shoulder and grins at him wickedly, shifts a bit so he’s working his way towards Aramis, in turn. They meet at the middle, their backs pressing up for a moment before Aramis lurches forward to plunge his sword into a man’s gut, and Porthos swings his sword down to catch at a man’s shoulder.

“You alright?” Porthos asks, and Aramis shouldn’t be surprised that Porthos, in turn, has kept an eye on him this entire time. 

It’s thrilling to know he isn’t paralyzed with fear, paralyzed with some kind of unknown feeling. These woods are nothing like the ones in Savoy. Perhaps it helps that it is the height of summer, thick with heat and sweat. Perhaps it helps that, in a way, Aramis was waiting for this. He does not feel any fear. He feels only surety that he will make it out of this alive, and Porthos will be by his side, protected. 

“Never been better,” Aramis says, actually laughs – because it is true. This is what he’s missed. The thrill of battle. The joy of violence. He has missed this, he has missed this tremendously – this ease and this joy. He is a good soldier. He always has been. He has always loved the ecstasy of the fight. 

Porthos duels against two men now, but their combined offense does little to make Porthos seem ill at ease. In fact, he’s laughing, kicks one man’s sword away and slams his pommel against the other’s face. He’s fighting dirty and Aramis feels a quiver of desire stir inside him when he realizes it, realizes that Porthos is kneeing men in the gut and groin for the fun of it, not out of necessity, that he is slamming his sword pommel and his elbow into noses with the intent to break them, simply to break them, not to disarm. 

Aramis dispatches his own man and turns to accompany Porthos through his own victory, offering his aid that’s hardly needed – one man stumbles back with a bloody nose from Porthos’ well-placed elbow, and the other is shaking apart under their grins as Aramis approaches, slices swiftly at the man’s side so he cries out. 

“You make it seem easy, Monsieur,” Aramis teases. 

“So I do,” Porthos agrees, wicked and beautiful, blood on his face but not his own. He leaves the last man to Aramis, who dispatches him quickly, and the two of them turn to survey the damage. 

The fighting continues on in such away – mindless and easy, child’s play. Aramis feels a sick kind of thrill from it all – a reclaiming of something. He is no helpless victim. He can overcome it all. He can make them pay. 

He watches as Porthos turns his head, looks at him over his shoulder again – his eyes bright with pride, with a similar joy that Aramis must be feeling himself. Aramis smiles back. 

And then he watches as, throat exposed, face turned towards Aramis, he misses the enemy coming upon him. Aramis makes a startled sound and Porthos’ eyes widen. He turns in time to block, but stumbles back upon uneven ground. The ground beneath his feet, so close towards the cliff’s edge, trembles and starts to break. 

Porthos stumbles, his sword slipping from his hand. Porthos stumbles backwards as the ground slips away piece by piece beneath his feet.

Aramis has no time to think. He throws his own sword to the ground, doesn’t hear it land, moves forward faster than he thought possible of him, and fists his hand around Porthos’ arm and he _yanks_. 

The world dims and splinters around them both. Aramis can hardly breathe around the sudden, crippling fear that twists up in his stomach. Porthos is falling and Aramis falls forward to catch him. He yanks, and he stumbles backwards, but not before Porthos tips over the edge of the unstable ground. Aramis’ grip remains, but the force of gravity and Porthos’ bulk jerks Aramis forward on to his stomach with the force of it. They will fall soon, Aramis can feel himself sliding as his feet scramble for purchase. He gropes around with his free hand, digs his nails in hard into the dirt to anchor himself, and his shoulder wrenches painfully with the sudden force of Porthos’ full weight on his arm. He doesn’t dare loosen his grip on Porthos. 

The fighting continues around behind them, musketeers stepping in to turn the tide of battle, but not enough hands to lend assistance. Everything in Aramis aches with it. His grip is not tight enough – he will lose Porthos, or he will lose them both. He digs his nails down hard into the dirt. His hand spasms in pain, strains. Porthos swings once in an attempt to get a grip on the cliff’s edge and then stops when Aramis cries out in agony, his shoulder throbbing in pain at the movement, his heart stuttering with the fear of death lying out before him. 

Porthos is hanging simply from the force of Aramis’ hold on his arm. Aramis is half off the cliff face already, only still on even ground through the grace of God and, he presumes, some very bloody fingers digging into the stone to hold tight. His shoulder screams in pain and his entire right side feels numb. But he holds onto him. He will not let go.

“Porthos,” he says, weakly, and struggles to get good footing. His feet fishtail out behind him, useless as he tries to gain stability. He hears a devastating crumble behind him and fears that the earth will fall out from beneath him and they will both be lost regardless. He stills. 

He doesn’t dare cry. His face burns with sweat, with fear, with blood that drips into his eye – when did he get injured? From falling face first against stone, undoubtedly – but he doesn’t dare cry out. He doesn’t dare feel anything other than a certainty that he will not let Porthos die. 

“It’s okay,” Porthos says. He’s hanging in the air, tethered only by Aramis’ sure grip on him. Porthos moves, so slowly, and tries to get purchase against the cliff’s wall with his one hand. Aramis flinches in pain at the movements. Porthos is _heavy_ and it is a strain. “It’s okay, Aramis,” Porthos tells him, looks up at him. Aramis must look as distressed as he feels. Porthos’ voice is strained, but he is calm, he is alright. “It’s okay,” he tells Aramis again. “You’ll be okay.” 

“Porthos,” Aramis whispers, because he cannot think what else to say. “ _You’ll_ be okay.” 

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees, and how can he be so calm, how can he be so sure – he looks up at Aramis and says, “I trust you with my life.”

Aramis half expects Porthos to tell him to let go. But he doesn’t. He just looks at Aramis, holding himself as steady as he can, trying to minimize his swinging, trying to find a way to get a hold on the cliff without rocking Aramis too drastically, without making him lose his grip. 

A man could come up behind Aramis right now and stab him in the back and he still wouldn’t let go of Porthos. He twists his head around, though, to try to get a look. There are bodies on the ground near him, but most of the fighting has moved a few feet down. If they can just hold on – if he could just pull Porthos up—

Aramis’ stomach rolls inside of him when he hears another devastating crumble around him, the earth wheezing with Aramis’ weight, the ground too fragile after that rainfall the night before. He tries to pull Porthos up but the pain lances through him, a worse pain, in that moment, than even a musketball to the temple. He nearly blacks out from it, but he refuses to lessen his grip on Porthos’ arm. 

Everything is a haze of indistinct pain and the _need_ to make sure Porthos is safe. He knows he cannot let go – knows he will never let go, that if Porthos must fall, Aramis will fall with him. He feels his body shutting down, feels it compartmentalizing the pain. When he hones in on Porthos again, he feels no pain in his shoulder. He sees only Porthos. There is only Porthos. 

Porthos looks at him – face calm, but his eyes betraying the smallest thread of fear he doesn’t relinquish. Aramis offers him a shaky smile – so grateful that Porthos is not trying to convince him to let go, try to convince him to save himself. Porthos, more than anyone, must know what it would mean to ask that of Aramis. Aramis holds him tight, steady. 

“I’m going to swing you,” Aramis says, grits his teeth against the thought of pain that will bring – there is no time for that, never any time for that. “Just grab hold, alright?”

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees. 

Aramis nods. He tightens his grip on Porthos’ arm and swings him forward. Porthos reaches out and grabs the rock face as best he can, scrambles to get a grip and stay in place. Aramis breathes out, nods his head. 

“Good,” he says, soft and gentle, like when he praises Porthos on completing a reading of a chapter and verse in the Bible. He’s made such progress. He’s so strong. He’s so amazing—

Porthos’ fingers dig into the cliff face, searching out the grooves. It is sheer rock, slicked with rain. For one terrifying moment, Porthos lurches, loses his footing as he tries to plant his toes upon the rock face. Aramis grits his teeth against the pain and holds himself steady. Porthos’ fingers dig hard into the rock, searching out the crags. 

“I’m alright,” Porthos says when he nearly slips again. His face is clenched up in pain, but he digs into the rock and scrambles, tries to get himself up. Aramis whimpers out and Porthos shakes his head. “I’m _here_. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Don’t,” Aramis agrees. _Don’t leave me,_ he doesn’t say. 

It is through Porthos’ strength alone that he manages to pull himself up to level with Aramis – just as Aramis fears his shoulder might shake apart. Porthos grips the cliff face as the rock wheezes around them. Aramis lurches forward, nearly tumbles, but Porthos grabs the back of his collar and hauls him to his feet. The cliff lurches beneath their feet but Porthos moves fast enough, sure enough, once on even footing to get Aramis away from the spot before the ground can tumble away. 

They are on even ground and Aramis is panting. The battle continues around him. He could pick up a sword and return to the thick of it, but with Porthos gone from immediately danger, his shoulder _throbs_ and he curls into himself. He says nothing, doesn’t even whimper in pain. It is too much for him to respond to it. Porthos lays a hand on his back, and it is solid and it is eased against him. He opens his eyes and knows that Porthos is beside him. 

Porthos is kneeled beside him, calling his name. “Aramis – are you alright?”

Aramis heaves in breath and manages to nod. He shakes all over and can’t quite manage to stand up, and there’s a dull thud of pain in his shoulder when Porthos touches over him, searching for injuries. His hands go immediately to his shoulder, though, knows that there will be an injury there. 

“It’s dislocated,” Porthos mutters.

Aramis manages a nod. He knows. He can tell.

Porthos is silent for a moment and then his hands wrap more firmly around his shoulder. 

Porthos rests a hand against him and looks at him. He says, quiet, “Sorry about this.”

Aramis doesn’t respond, can’t wrap his head around what he’s saying, but then there is the wrenching jolt of his shoulder getting shoved back into place and he shouts out in a quiet pain. He leans against Porthos once he’s done and presses his face into his shoulder. Porthos is solid and steady. Porthos is here. Porthos is alive. 

“Don’t you dare do that again,” Aramis whispers against his neck, lets himself fall in that moment, lets himself mouth out kisses against his throat between each word. He can feel Porthos’ heart racing and Aramis laughs out, broken and slightly hysterical, and says again, “Don’t you dare leave me.” 

“I won’t,” Porthos promises because he is a good man and does not know, truly, what he is promising Aramis. He cannot promise to never leave him but he offers the sentiment all the same. 

“Are you injured?” Aramis asks, jerking back to try to run his hands down over Porthos, check him over for some kind of injury. 

Porthos shakes his head. His gaze is warm and he drops his hands to Aramis’ wrists. Aramis feels abruptly overwhelmed by it all and leans into his touch – just needs Porthos to be touching him. If Porthos is touching him, then Porthos is alive – if Porthos is alive, then Aramis can breathe again. 

When Porthos brings him to his feet, he feels a little unsteady, on wobbling knees but otherwise alright. His shoulder throbs in pain but it is not as bad as it was. 

“… Thank you,” he whispers out, indicating his shoulder. 

Porthos pulls him into a hug – devastatingly gentle, as if afraid he would snap Aramis in two, crumble him down to pieces. Aramis slumps against him, relieved, and hugs him back with his good arm. Porthos holds him close, perhaps too close, especially when one hand slides up the back of Aramis’ neck, thumb stroking along the skin, the other on the small of his back. Tension creeps up Aramis’ spine before he decides to ignore it and just enjoy Porthos’ touch. It’s only a hug. That’s all it is. 

He’s thankful he can hide his face against Porthos’ shoulder, though. Melts against him and lets everything around him simply be. There is only Porthos. And he is alive. 

“Shit,” Porthos says after a moment where they simply stand and hug one another, looking around the spaces around them. “I think my sword fell down that goddamn cliff.” 

All is well now.

 

-

 

The team’s surgeon checks Aramis over even once he insists that he is alright for the most part, aside from a sore and swollen, injured shoulder. Porthos did not suffer as many injuries, although his wrist is sprained from lurching against Aramis’ hold, and his fingertips are bruised from climbing up sheer rock – but they are minor injuries that Porthos dismisses outright. 

Once the pain ebbs away, Aramis does start to whine, though. He lulls his head over Porthos’ shoulder to look up at him and goes, “You’re too big, Porthos. Far too heavy.” 

They’re sitting at the camp now, just the two of them. Aramis, with a dislocated shoulder, is out of commission for the rest of the mission. Porthos elected to stay behind and keep an eye on him, just in case, and it’s just as well. When it comes to undercover missions, it’s better to have as few men as possible cluttering it all up. It is a bit of a detriment to lose the one best at stealth and the one best at speaking Spanish, of course, but Aramis can’t mourn a moment alone with Porthos. 

Porthos is in the process of heating up some food, hunched over their little fire as the sun sinks down towards the trees. 

“I’ll give you my food, then, if you think I’m too big,” Porthos jokes, with zero intention of handing his food over. He gives Aramis a warm glance. “I think I deserve some food, though, considering I almost died today.”

Aramis looks grim-faced for a moment. “Don’t say it like that.”

Porthos shrugs and Aramis sighs out, before his expression clears up and he scoots a little closer to him. He leans against him, head on his shoulder. Porthos’ other shoulder smarts from jerking under Aramis’ grip as he fell, but it’s only a slight tweak and nothing serious. His wrist is wrapped up now. Aramis suffered the worst of it. Porthos wraps an arm around him and pets his hair, briefly. 

“I reacted,” Aramis says, looking into the fire. “It was instinct.”

“I’m definitely not complaining,” Porthos says. He saw how far the drop went down – he wouldn’t have survived. 

“Today it – it almost felt like it used to be. Fun. And then you—” He bites his lip, cutting himself off, and forces himself to relax. “And then I just moved on instinct. Before – I couldn’t do anything. But today…”

He looks down. 

“I didn’t…” Aramis stills, straightens, goes more serious as he turns to look at Porthos properly. “I didn’t want you to fall, Porthos. I’ll never let you fall. I’ll never let that happen to you.” 

Porthos looks at him for a moment, taken aback by the sheer force of the words, and ducks his head to wipe his hands on his pants, to rid them of the dirt. He blinks, all too aware of how his eyes burn – with the smoke, he hopes, not unshed tears – and clears his throat. 

Aramis makes a mournful sound beside him and a hand comes up to touch his cheek. “I hate it that something so obvious can make you react like this.”

Porthos looks up and Aramis is looking at him, calm and gentle, and kind – but heartbroken. 

“I never say the right things for you – I never…” Aramis whispers. “It should be obvious that I didn’t want you to fall,” Aramis says, heartbroken. “That should be _obvious._ ” 

Porthos blinks rapidly again and Aramis murmurs his name, slides his thumb along his scar. “It is,” Porthos agrees. “Just… not used to anyone caring about me that much.” 

“Porthos,” Aramis whispers. “You – you must know that I—” He stops, something tugging him back, and he ducks his head. He shifts in close and wraps his arm around him, hugs him close. He says instead, “I don’t know how I’d – I don’t think… I don’t want to think about losing you.” 

Porthos wants to tell him that he’d be okay, that he’d figure it out – but he knows that isn’t what Aramis wants to hear. So instead, he curls into him and holds him close, holds him gently, against the light of the fire. The world beyond them is nothing but a dark forest. All there is for them, in this moment, is the two of them within this circle of firelight. Porthos breathes out and kisses Aramis’ temple, safe in this darkness, safe in holding him. 

“I didn’t want you to fall,” Aramis says again. 

“You saved me,” Porthos agrees and tightens his hold on him. And because he realizes he hasn’t said it yet, he adds, quietly, “ _Thank you._ ” 

Aramis keeps holding on tight to him. “Porthos… Is this how it’ll be from now on? One of us always so near death? Or both of us?”

Porthos hums out, rubbing his back. Aramis ducks his head, breathing out shakily. 

“I don’t know if I can handle that, so often. Every time I turn around, one or both of us is close to dying. It’s – I can’t handle you always being in danger.”

“I thought you liked danger,” Porthos says and doesn’t mention the melon. Doesn’t mention that they’re _musketeers_. 

Aramis shakes his head. “I do. I can’t believe I do. But I also – I can’t let you die.” 

“I’m here,” Porthos says. He runs a hand down his back, then back up again into his hair. “You saved me.” 

Aramis nods, and he doesn’t cry, but there is a hitch to his shoulders once before he draws back, presses the heel of his hand to his eyes, and then he smiles at him – a little too bright, a little too vulnerable. Raw and exposed. 

Porthos cups his cheek and leans in, kissing him. 

“Never do that to me again,” Aramis whispers against his mouth, cups his face and kisses him again. 

Porthos nods. “I’m… not really used to being out in the countryside like this. More used to the city.” 

Aramis hums out, settles so that he’s in the pocket of Porthos’ side, arm wrapped around him as Porthos finished making up the dinner. They sit like that for a long moment, Aramis content not to push Porthos, it seems, but Porthos is feeling vulnerable himself, facing down a sudden death. Suddenly not being open with Aramis feels too strange, too wrong. 

“… I never left Paris until I joined the infantry, you know,” he says, keeps it conversational and knowing Aramis won’t miss the significance of it. 

Aramis eats his food, but his hand strays to Porthos’ knee and squeezes, indicating he should continue. 

Porthos is silent for a long moment and then he says, quietly, “My mother didn’t always live in the Court. I don’t really know where she came from. Dunno if she knew, either. But she talked about the forests, sometimes. So I think… she must have been a little familiar with it.” 

Aramis turns slightly, says nothing, just leans into Porthos’ space, giving him that comfort. 

Porthos runs a hand over his back, gently. “She was a slave.” 

That gets Aramis to startle. “Porthos—”

“And she was freed,” Porthos interrupts quickly, voice tight, but needing to push through the words – can do her the justice of having her story be known, even if only in fragments. That’s how he remembers her – in pieces, one piece at a time creating a full picture, if broken. A mosaic. Her smile, her eyes, the soft touch of her hands to his face when checking for fever. How she’d pushed him away, in the end, so he wouldn’t get sick, too. He hadn’t been there when she died, not really, and—

He swallows down thickly. 

Aramis touches his face and he turns his head to look at him. Aramis is kind and gentle, says nothing, doesn’t offer any platitudes – only listens, expression raw. It’s something he appreciates about Aramis – that he knows when to be quiet, knows when a touch offers more comfort than any word ever could. Porthos offers him a tentative smile. Aramis cups his cheek, swipes his thumb over his cheek – he hadn’t realized there was a tear there until that moment. He sucks in a wobbly breath. 

“I wish I knew more about her, in the end,” Porthos finishes. He looks down. He closes his eyes. 

Aramis kisses his forehead, lingering close and breathing out his name. Then Porthos breathes out, forces himself to relax. Aramis’ hand falls to his knee again and they fall into a silence. Porthos doesn’t know what else to say, but the heaviness in the air is too suffocating. 

“Forests, being out in the open… I’m still not really used to it. Sure as fuck not used to taking a cliff into account when fighting, aside from the obvious ‘don’t go over there’,” Porthos continues, watches Aramis’ thumb swipe a little circle along his kneecap. He sighs out, mimics the gesture, circling his thumb along Aramis’ uninjured shoulder. He continues, “It’s… really open.”

“There’s comfort in Paris,” Aramis agrees, quiet. “I like the country just fine, but it… starts to get too much, after a while.” He’s quiet and then adds, “I still don’t like the forests. I used to. Maybe I will again.”

Porthos squeezes him in close and Aramis sighs out, pressing his cheek to Porthos’ chest. 

“… Before,” Aramis says, cautious, slow, waiting for Porthos to interrupt. He doesn’t. Aramis sighs out, “With Isabelle. I envisioned having a little house together in the country. Us and the children. We’d be happy…” He trails off, quiet. Then he says, “A son or a daughter… I don’t know which it would have been. But our child would be… nine? Ten? I’m not sure anymore.” 

Before Porthos can say anything, Aramis hiccups a pained little laugh, scratchy and unnatural to his ears. 

“I’m sure I’d have been a terrible father, regardless,” Aramis says. “Running into danger. Loving too many people. It’s—” He cuts himself off and seems to sag. He closes his eyes. Touches Porthos’ hand. “I have no way of knowing how good I’d have been.” 

Porthos is silent, stroking his hand over his shoulder. He stares into the fire and then says, “For what it’s worth… I’m sure you’d have been exactly what the child needed.”

Aramis turns his head, presses his face to Porthos’ shoulder. He says nothing.

Porthos strokes over his back. “I never knew my father. But what I remember of my mother – she was kind and she was loving. You’re both things. That’s all I really needed.” He feels a little self-conscious, suddenly, and laughs out. “Not that – I’m hardly a good judge of what a good father makes, clearly. I wouldn’t know the first thing about it.” 

“Don’t say that,” Aramis whispers out and wraps Porthos into a hug. “Don’t say that, please.” 

Porthos goes quiet and ducks his head down, nosing into Aramis’ hair. They hug each other for some time and find no need for words. 

Years later, Porthos will give Aramis the advice to deny a mother and her child, for all their safety. He will tell him to deny his connection – and they will both understand the pain it causes them both to say it. They will both under what it means to the both of them for Porthos to offer such a thing: Porthos, who never knew a father – and Aramis, who only ever wanted to be a father. They will both understand, and they will both remember this moment out in the woods: Aramis curled up into Porthos’ arms, both of them aching for people they can never have again. 

They will remember this moment and they will understand, without words, with just a look. Aramis will look up at Porthos on those stairs, apologizing for the deception, and they will both understand how much it means that they could have this moment at all. There will be pain, but never anger. 

But that is not for many years to come. 

 

-

 

The next day, the sky is clear and the path to the regiment is clear and open. They avoid narrow points of the woods, opting for the longer, but more secure, way. Heading back to Paris is quicker than heading out, although they do pause occasionally to walk their horses before watering them at nearby streams and rivers they pass. The sun beats on their necks, but it’s a pleasant warmth. 

In these moments, Aramis stays close to Porthos as they move their horses towards water. Porthos pats at his mare absently, and doesn’t startle when Aramis reaches out and tugs on his coat sleeve to draw him in closer so they’re walking side by side. His hand lingers upon his arm.

He looks up at Porthos, expression soft. “You should stay close. Don’t know how many cliffs might be out there. We have to stick together.” 

There is a lightness in his voice – whether purposeful or adopted – and when he smiles up at Porthos, it reaches his eyes all the same. There is the lingering fear, but they can cross that bridge when they get to it. 

Porthos wants to kiss him, but they are out in the open and surrounded by too many musketeers. But he thinks Aramis must know what he wants because his smile is almost impish, a glimmer of playfulness lighting up from behind his eyes. All is well now.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a close. They aren't finished - there's still so much left, still so much left for the two of them to experience together, to grow into, to understand about themselves and one another. But this, at least, they can be sure of. This, at least, is theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is, the final chapter. I just want to thank everyone who read this fic over the last couple months - all your kudos and comments have meant the world to me, and all your supportive messages and likes on tumblr while I've bumbled around on there have been wonderful and encouraging. Basically, this was a blast to write, and a great accomplishment for me - since I wasn't sure if I'd have the discipline or ability to complete a long chapter-fic, since I usually stick to one-shots. At least now I know I can do it! 
> 
> Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all your kind words. I hope you enjoy this final chapter to this fic - and thanks for sticking with it. 
> 
> And, to close out, if you haven't seen the awesome fanart that JL has drawn for this fic, seriously go [check it all out right now](http://jlsdrawings.tumblr.com/tagged/some-thread-to-sew-the-wound). Because it's great, and there can never be enough portamis.

The next few days after returning to Paris pass in a relative quiet. Aramis’ arm still needs to heal, swollen and uncomfortable, with limited range of motion and movement. Porthos has a tweaked shoulder and wrist, but it’s nothing as bad as Aramis’ damage, and so Porthos returns to active duty while Aramis assists some of the newer recruits in the meantime. 

Each evening, Porthos returns and checks over Aramis’ arm for him. There is comfort in that – always comfort in Porthos’ hands upon him. Rough and callused, large, but always so gentle when touching him. He strips off Aramis’ shirtsleeves, prods his fingers and thumbs along his swollen shoulder, not flinching away when Aramis recoils but instead softening his touch, searching out the levels of his discomfort. And then he helps wrap it all up again, strapping Aramis’ arm protectively to his chest as the shoulder heals again. 

“I believe I said once that scars are far preferable to injuries such as these,” Aramis says, tipping his chin up so he can kiss over Porthos’ scar – wishes, not for the first time, that he didn’t have to have that scar at all, but cherishing it all the same. A scar that, forever, marks Porthos’ care for him – and the relief and terror that brings. 

“Your sacrifices are great,” Porthos answers, his smile light and a touch playful. 

“So they are,” Aramis agrees, his smile sardonic. 

“I never properly thanked you for this particular sacrifice,” Porthos says, running his hand over his shoulder, his touch gentle again. “What kind of friend am I, then?” 

Aramis laughs out, but the spark of protectiveness ignites in his belly – protective of Porthos even against Porthos. “Don’t say that,” he says, and he knows Porthos was teasing, Aramis himself was teasing, but now he’s reaching out and running his hand down Porthos’ chest, just for the sake of touching him. “You’re a friend I hold in high regard. And you thanked me well enough before. No more are necessary.” 

Porthos snorts, looking more amused than upset – which is a benefit – and shifting closer to Aramis. “Like hell it’s not. Should I praise you? You like that.”

“Well,” Aramis tuts. “I wouldn’t be opposed…” 

Aramis sighs out as Porthos pulls him into his arms. Their lips meet for an instant, and Aramis sighs out again into the kiss, melting in against Porthos. He can’t help it, he thinks he’ll always melt if it’s Porthos holding him like this. Porthos runs a hand over his back. Aramis wants to wrap his arms around Porthos’ neck, keep him close, but knows his shoulder will protest that movement – and so he just lifts one hand to curl up into his hair, twisting up around the curls. 

They stay like this – and Aramis has never felt safer, twined up in Porthos’ hold, leaning against him. The air is thick with summer and there is no fear of winter’s chill now, no fear of snow – the blood upon it. He closes his eyes against Porthos, kisses him slowly, and tries not to see Marsac’s back as he walks away. He focuses in, twists his hand tighter into Porthos’ hair and kisses him, solid, more desperate. He closes his eyes and sees nothing, only feels Porthos lying out against him. He can have this. He’s allowed to have this, even if only for a little while. That’s what he tells himself—

“I owe you my life,” Porthos whispers out against his mouth, breaking the kiss to press their foreheads together. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough for that.” 

The thought of Porthos tumbling over a cliff is enough to make Aramis feel sick to his stomach – hates to think of all the possibilities that might have happened that day, hates to think about _losing_ him, just as he’d lost so many. And yet Porthos never told him to let go, never made him have to fear disobeying his request. 

He draws back enough to touch Porthos’ cheek, swipes his thumb along the line of his scar. 

_And you’ve saved mine,_ Aramis wants to say. Several times over already – he thinks, easily, that Porthos might save his a hundred times over if he were allowed. He swallows around the words, unable to speak them, unsure why he can’t. 

“Thanking me once is enough,” Aramis whispers. It was no hardship, it was no burden to reach out to Porthos. He moved on instinct, that day on the cliff. He would always try to save Porthos. That was never a question. It will never be a question. 

“I know,” Porthos murmurs, quiet. His eyes are dark, warm – he smiles at him gently. “Still want to, though.”

Aramis shakes his head, petting his fingers through Porthos’ hair. “You don’t have to thank me. You almost died.” 

“We _are_ musketeers,” Porthos reminds him, his smile dry. “Facing down death is hardly going to be uncommon.” 

Aramis closes his eyes – watches Marsac walk away, footprints upon the snow, Aramis cold all over and hating Marsac for one hot, painful moment before it melted away to sorrow – how he’d almost cried, his hand lifting and curling into nothing, as if that would be enough to call him back. He shivers – and Porthos runs his hand up his back. 

“Facing my own mortality is fine. I should be used to it at this point,” Aramis remarks, brittled, sighing out as he leans in close to Porthos again, pressing their foreheads together once more. “But facing yours is – I can’t do that.”

“I know,” Porthos says, quieter still, and there is a thread of something in his voice which means he’s holding back on saying it – likely, that there is but one inevitability for a musketeer. Still, Aramis can’t think to accept that, to even consider the possibility of Porthos dying before Aramis does. 

“I just need to remind myself you’re alive,” Aramis whispers out, and his shoulder throbs with the knowledge that he _saved him_ , just as he’d save him a hundred, a thousand times over. He’d spend the rest of his life making sure Porthos lives, happy, safe, and protected. He’d give his life to make sure of that. 

“I’m alive,” Porthos tells him, and leans in close. Aramis makes a soft, quiet sound and tilts his head up to meet him. 

Porthos kisses him again, gently, then his forehead and over his cheeks. Aramis hums out, tipping his chin down, and smiling a little. He runs his hand over Porthos, stroking his cheek, down over his neck, pressing to his chest. He shifts closer, climbs up into his lap, if only to feel that chuff of laughter against his ear, feel the curve of Porthos’ smile. It’s an indulgent smile. 

“Well,” Aramis says, his voice turning thready. “There are certainly _other_ ways you could express thanks. And prove to me how alive you are.” 

His hands take on a more heated promise in his movements and Aramis lifts his eyebrows in invitation. 

“We’re taking it easy cause of your shoulder,” Porthos says, but then he’s grinning. “But I’m not about to refuse you.”

“You never do,” Aramis agrees, and pushes Porthos down onto his back.

“Let me show you how alive I am, then,” Porthos agrees. 

 

-

 

Aramis finds that the time passes faster than it used to. Aramis stops counting the time as ‘this many days since that snowy day in spring’, and rather counts the days as a mere progression of time, as another day to wake up and find Porthos smiling at him. He is a usual fixture in his bed now, either in Aramis’ room or in Porthos’. 

It’s far from easy – Aramis still suffers from nightmares, still suffers from the urge to curl into himself and simply stop, but those moments feel further and further apart from each other. There is comfort in Porthos’ friendship. 

He still doesn’t deserve Porthos’ kindness. He thinks that he’ll feel that way until the end of his days. But, so long as Porthos is there for that last moment, he thinks he’ll be alright. Maybe, just maybe, he can let himself be happy. 

There are moments when Aramis is slaving over a translation for Porthos’ behalf, where Porthos merely ducks his head down and kisses him. There is joy in that. 

There are moments when Aramis is walking the streets with Porthos and all he has to do is turn his head and find Porthos smiling back at him. There is comfort in that. 

There are moments when Aramis is shaken awake by his own nightmares, gasping out and shuddering, only to find himself collected into Porthos’ arms and held safe. There is security in that.

There are moments like this, with Aramis sprawled out on his back and Porthos stroking a hand down over his side. Porthos, smiling at him, gentle and almost teasing. 

He says, “Tell me to stop and I will.”

He always says this. Each time, when their clothes strip away and Aramis just wants to _need_. He’s never found reason to say the words. Tonight, the air feels thick with heat, he’s curled up into Porthos’ space, clinging to him. 

He clenches his eyes shut as Porthos ducks his head to kiss his neck. He’s been shaken awake by a nightmare just that very morning and now it feels like it’s dragging itself ever closer. He can see the snow. The blood. Marsac walking away. 

He has no right to feel this. He has no right to feel this kindness, this strength, this warmth – the comfort of Porthos pressing down against him, already scarred because of him, already put into so much danger because of him.

He wonders, in a strange moment, what Porthos would do if he told him to stop. He licks his lips, tips his head back to stare up at the ceiling, and then cranes forward to press his mouth to Porthos’ ear and whispers, “Stop.”

He doesn’t know what he expects. But he is also not surprised when Porthos obeys him, ceases moving immediately and draws back from him, looking at him in concern. That, more than anything, leaves Aramis feeling crippled, untethered. 

Aramis smiles at him, wobbly and uncertain – and ashamed. He says, “I just… I was just checking.” 

He tries to sound light-hearted and knows he fails, tries to sound like he’s alright. He doesn’t know why he said it. He had no reason to. He doesn’t fear Porthos, only what Aramis might do to him, how Aramis might hurt him, in the end. Only fears Porthos leaving. He doesn’t know why he feels like crying now. Porthos looks at him for a moment, then moves so he’s resting beside him, one arm curled around him. 

Aramis shakes his head. “No, it’s alright – let’s just…”

Porthos shakes his head, too, and draws Aramis in – just hugging him, holding him close. He holds him for a very long time, not moving, not saying anything – just doing a deep breathing that always sets Aramis into a quiet state of relaxation. Aramis closes his eyes, pillows against Porthos’ chest. He sees Marsac walking away. He blinks his eyes open and turns his head, pressing to Porthos’ neck, just breathing him in, tracing the tendons of his neck with his eyes. 

He knows. He knows that he does not deserve a man like Porthos, who is kind and good. He does not deserve this compassion. He does not deserve this gentle man. 

But it doesn’t stop him from wanting. It doesn’t stop him from sighing out and melting into Porthos’ touch every time he reaches for him. It doesn’t stop him from feeling that, maybe, he can be human again. 

If only he could let himself be. 

“You want to talk about it?” Porthos finally asks, after the sky has darkened further into night. Aramis doesn’t know how long Porthos has held him, but he knows he doesn’t want him to stop, either. 

“No,” he says, weak. “There’s nothing to say – nothing you don’t already know.”

Porthos’ hand skims over his bare back, traces along a scar near his spine. Aramis shivers and melts against him.

“Okay,” Porthos whispers and kisses the top of his head. “I’ll just hold you, then. That okay?”

“Yes,” Aramis murmurs back, and curls further into him.

 

-

 

Towards the end of the month, more recruits come in. Some are bright and ridiculous, just as Porthos remembers them being when he first joined up. Others are quieter, more seasoned. Some keep to themselves and others go out and test the waters, making friends right away. 

Aramis hums to himself beside him, peeling an orange and saying, absently, “Wish I had a melon…”

He says things like this, sometimes, just to catch Porthos off guard. He gives Aramis a quick look and grins at him, wicked, Aramis’ intentions more than clear. He can see it around the curve of his smile as he ducks his head to focus on digging his nail into the orange rind. 

“You’re not doing anything until that shoulder heals.”

Aramis rolls his shoulder to demonstrate his range of motion. “It’s fine, you mother hen.”

“Look who’s talking,” Porthos laughs and Aramis shrugs, smiling. 

Porthos turns back to watch the new recruits. There’s one who doesn’t look like he’s ever held a sword in his life, sloppy and untrained. And on the opposite end of the spectrum, there is one who clearly knows how to handle a sword, his movements fluid and easy, as if it were just like breathing. 

The smell of orange fills the air and Aramis nudges his arm before holding out a segment. Porthos chews on it thoughtfully, closes his eyes and smiles stupidly at the burst of juice on his tongue. 

“Fuck, that’s good,” he says, unashamed, and Aramis snorts out a soft laugh. It’s a thoroughly undignified sound, which just means Porthos loves it all the more. 

They sit and watch the recruits. 

“Do you remember being like that?” Aramis asks. 

Porthos scoffs. “I looked far better than most of them.”

“Mmm,” Aramis hums in agreement, his smile turning sly as he bites at a piece of orange. “Oh, I remember.” Porthos laughs, softer this time, almost embarrassed. “Mm,” Aramis continues, “I bet you could throw them all across the yard without a hint of trouble. You’re quite the brute, my friend.” Porthos shoots him an indulgent look, shoulders puffing up, and Aramis laughs more as he looks at him. “Wouldn’t even break a sweat.”

“A bit of one,” Porthos corrects, grinning. “That way I can strip down, keep from getting too warm.” 

Aramis makes a soft sound, licking the orange juice from the tips of his fingers. “You always make it look easy.”

Porthos, staring at Aramis’ fingers, merely says, “I do the best I can.” 

 

-

 

The next day, Porthos arrives to the garrison’s courtyard to find Aramis leaning against the stable post, watching the new recruits. 

“Morning,” he greets, smiling at Porthos as he comes over to stand beside him, bumping his shoulder lightly in greeting. 

“Anything good happening?” Porthos asks, watching a swordfight between two new recruits – one, heavy-footed and uncomfortable, the second a man with slumping shoulders and a detached expression. 

“Just watch,” Aramis invites and together they watch the first recruit stumble to one knee and trying to sidestep. The second, the one who looks thoroughly unruffled, blocks it without incident, does his own series of side-steps, and backs away – just barely, just enough to let the new recruit reclaim some control and collect himself. 

“Hm,” Porthos grunts in approval as the second new recruit steps around the first easily, as if he’s hardly trying, no sweat upon his brow and his expression as impassive as ever as he blocks, blocks, then strikes. His movements are precise and fluid, far more comfortable with the sword than Aramis ever has been, Porthos much less. 

“You should fight him next,” Aramis says in a stage whisper and Porthos snorts, loudly. 

The new recruit’s eyes flicker over his opponent and he doesn’t hesitate this time when he hits the other recruit with the blunt side of his sword – the ending blow. He falls to one knee and the impassive recruit looks away, looking for all the world that proving himself and the victory therein mean very little to him.

“He has good technique,” Aramis remarks as the new recruit doesn’t offer his hand to his opponent. The defeated recruit, slight and uncertain, rises to his feet and weaves back into the crowd to nurse his wounded pride. He doesn’t seem too distraught, however, smiling a bit – he held his own, at least for a little while. 

No one else steps forward. 

“Very well,” Aramis sighs, loudly, after a pause. The new recruit’s eyes flicker to him and rest there, and the rest of the crowd lets out a little hoot of pleased surprise. “I suppose it’s my turn, then.”

“Your shoulder…” Porthos starts to warn, but Aramis isn’t listening. 

He’s grinning, glancing at Porthos as he pulls himself away from the stable post and unsheathes his sword, approaching. 

“I trust you’ll go easy on a veteran such as myself,” Aramis says, cheerfully. Porthos can’t help but grin, but the new recruit merely looks appraising, and then vaguely disapproving. “I have a prior injury but I hope to give you something of a challenge.”

“I doubt it,” the recruit answers, in something that might be a dry joke if it didn’t make Porthos want to immediately bristle in retaliation. Aramis merely laughs, though, bright and unrestrained. 

“Never fear,” Aramis remarks, giving an exaggerated bow, “I’m sure I’ll do well to stroke your ego.” 

“I hardly need it,” the recruit replies, unimpressed and expressionless. Aramis tilts his head, regarding the new recruit’s face, and then shrugs. 

“Very well,” Aramis says, and shifts back into position – smiling all the while. 

Aramis is a good match to the new recruit, certainly better than his first opponent, but it is clear that the new recruit excels in swordsmanship, even discounting Aramis’ injury. Aramis’ movements are imprecise and limited due to the swelling in his shoulder, but he’s smiling amicably enough as he blocks each swipe from the new recruit. 

“So what brings you amongst our ranks?” Aramis asks. 

“None of your concern,” the recruit answers. Porthos feels his shoulders tense up.

Aramis laughs, “And may I know your name?”

“Why would you wish to?” answers the new recruit. 

Aramis laughs more even as Porthos feels himself start to glower. “Well, if we are to be brothers, I suppose it might be worthwhile to know.” He blocks a jab from the new recruit. “My name is Aramis – and we needn’t bother with the last name, as it’s a bit of a mouthful.” 

Porthos crosses his arms, hands fisting up as he watches the new recruit – focusing on blocking, then attacking, but remaining unresponsive to Aramis’ friendliness. 

“My name is Athos,” the new recruit – Athos – finally decides upon. He blocks Aramis’ jab, slides their swords down, and knocks back against Aramis with such force that Aramis cringes at the twinge in his shoulder and stumbles back.

“Hey,” Porthos starts to say, almost walks off from the stable post, but Aramis waves at him and turns a charmer’s smile towards Athos. Porthos’ ears still burn with the clash of metal against metal, with the sound of Athos’ dismissive words towards Aramis. 

“I believe I might have to bow out,” Aramis says, swiping out his sword and bowing, with more flippancy and showmanship than strictly necessary – but then, that was always Aramis: the show-off. 

“Very well,” Athos says, looks at Aramis for a long moment in an expression that Porthos can’t recognize, and then turns away.

Aramis is chipper enough when he returns to Porthos. 

“Oh, don’t make that face,” he says in greeting. 

“I don’t like him,” Porthos decides as they walk away from where Athos cleans off his blade and sheaths it. Porthos’ brow furrows at the thought of it and he crosses his arms again. “Don’t trust him. Didn’t like the way he talked to you.”

“My darling Porthos,” Aramis says with a bright little laugh. “That’s exactly how _you_ spoke to me in the beginning.” 

Porthos is, of course, dumbfounded by this assessment. He gives Aramis a bewildered look, which just makes Aramis laugh all the more. He leads Porthos towards the stables, leaning back against one of the posts so that Porthos can check over his shoulder – it isn’t anything serious, just a slight twinge. Porthos still frowns deeply at Aramis, though. 

They both watch as Athos moves away from the crowd, as other recruits line up for their chance to prove themselves. They watch Athos walk, slowly and with slumped shoulders, to the table where they usually eat their breakfast. He sits, and slouches. 

Porthos grunts, not looking satisfied. He readjusts Aramis’ coat with a muttered, “You shouldn’t be fighting right now.”

“Oh, it’s fine, don’t worry so much,” Aramis dismisses. “We were evenly matched.”

“You were injured,” Porthos mutters.

“He has his own handicap. Can’t you see it?” Aramis asks. 

Aramis looks over at where Athos is slumped over the table now, sitting and staring down upon the wood grain as if it holds all of life’s answers. Porthos gives him the benefit of looking, too, but sees nothing worthwhile – sees only someone dismissive of Aramis, after all he’s been through, after all he’s done – that Aramis can smile now, like this, that he can joke—

But then, Athos wouldn’t know about that, would he? 

“Don’t you remember it?” Aramis asks. “Those first weeks – you were so defensive. So sure I hated you.” Porthos doesn’t answer anything, but he knows that Aramis knows he’s listening. He turns his head and looks up at Porthos, his expression warm – gentled. 

“Yeah, yeah… I remember,” Porthos mutters – he couldn’t forget those few weeks, leaving a regiment he never felt he belonged in and coming to one where he wasn’t sure what to expect, only knew it was what he wanted. Remembered being so angry, so frustrated, so uncertain of everything – and sure that it showed on his face to all who bothered to look. He almost can’t recognize that man now. 

Aramis is still looking at him, smiling sadly as he says, “You just wanted a place to belong.”

Porthos makes a soft sound and reaches out, touches his hand to the small of Aramis’ back. Aramis’ smile turns a little brighter. He leans back into it, rests his head against Porthos’ shoulder. 

“I found it,” Porthos says, voice quiet. “I like to think I did.”

“You did,” Aramis agrees. He looks out at Athos for a moment and then turns back to look up at Porthos. “Every man, I think, comes here looking for something.” 

Porthos glances over at Athos for a moment and adds, “Or to run from something.” 

“Don’t be so determined to hate him,” Aramis laughs. “We’ve already made you such a charming man, we can’t have you going back on that and hissing at everyone.”

“I never hiss,” Porthos dismisses. “You hiss on my behalf.” 

“Hissing is unbecoming,” Aramis sniffs. “I’ve never done that.” 

“Course not,” Porthos snorts, properly mollified now, at least for the moment. Across the garrison, Athos continues to stare down at the table. 

 

-

 

Tonight, Porthos is in no mood to practice his reading and writing. He doesn’t enjoy writing, not really. He’ll enjoy the skill once he has it, certainly, but it is not a skill that comes easily to him now. He is no stranger to effort, will always struggle and work for everything he wants, but the hours dedicated to focus and pursuit, after hours of soldiering, doesn’t make him feel like he’s pushing anywhere near to proficiency. He is used to practice, he is used to struggling, he is used to putting in the effort – and yet it feels as if he has shown no improvement since he revealed his shaky, wobbly, ugly words to Aramis. He is in no mood for this tonight. 

That, and he’s agitated from that morning and the sparring between Aramis and Athos. 

The piece of charcoal he’s been working with snaps beneath his fingertips, the third time that night, and he makes a frustrated sound at the smudge across the page. It matters little, in the end, as his words are a mess of scrawl and misspelled words, uneven lines, curving around and taking up unnecessary space, too small in places and too fat in others. 

He curses quietly to himself, feels childish for it, and stares down at the sheaf of paper he’s wasting. Aramis stirs from where he’s stretched out across his bed, halfway between napping and halfway between consulting his Bible for his own translations. He watches Porthos throw down the charcoal nub.

“I have another,” he offers after a moment, unfolding himself from the bed and setting his Bible aside as he approaches. Aramis moves smoothly, all grace and good-natured smiles, keeping his arm close to his side where his shoulder is still injured, aggravated that very morning despite Porthos’ warnings. 

“There’s hardly a point,” Porthos mutters, heaves a sigh, tries to banish his frustrations and unable to do so – he gives Aramis a slightly apologetic look before he looks down, embarrassed. “It’s no good today.” 

Aramis leans in and kisses the top of his head, brushes his fingers through his hair – and Porthos should be embarrassed by how much that soothes him, but he tips his head back and smiles at him, wobbly and uncertain. Aramis smiles back and kisses the tip of his nose. 

“You’ll get there,” Aramis tells him. 

Porthos stares down at the piece of paper, filled with mistakes, scratches, all his struggles laid out in one easy to see location. His shoulders tense up as Aramis goes to find him another piece of charcoal. Porthos stares down at the paper and sighs out. 

It goes too slow. He feels stupid, he feels foolish, he feels ridiculous – praised for something so absurd, something so minor and unsatisfying, as if he has done something grand and wonderful. This is something that children excel at, something that all his fellow musketeers take for granted. Something he struggles over as if it is the most difficult thing he has ever faced, and comes out feeling the bigger fool for it. 

Aramis’ hand covers Porthos’, where it’s fisted upon the table, nails digging into palm. He looks up at Aramis, embarrassed. 

Aramis says nothing, looking at him for a stretching moment and then down at the page, lifts his hand to trace along the scrawl of Porthos’ shaky writing. A child’s handwriting. Give him a sword or a weapon, or just his fists, and there he can find grace to match the fluid way Aramis moves in general. Give him a reason to fight, and there are none who can match him, his strength and his skill born from necessity and years of practice and study. Here, he feels impatient and undetermined. 

“What are you doing?” Porthos finally asks, embarrassed still. 

“My father wrote my mother love letters,” Aramis says after a long pause. “And his writing was terrible. Utterly horrible – she couldn’t read a single word.” 

Porthos’ mouth twists up as Aramis traces over each letter, shaky, but legible, fingertips smudging with the dark charcoal. Unnecessary capitals, square and short letters in places, then looped and slanted elsewhere. Porthos feels himself blushing as Aramis traces over the entire length of paper. Then he looks up, finally, and smiles gently at Porthos. 

“I can read yours, though,” Aramis says. “So what if your handwriting is terrible. I can read it.” He turns his head a little, shifts up, nuzzles against his jaw – and Porthos closes his eyes against the affection, sighs out. Aramis whispers, “You don’t have to be perfect with this.” 

“I hate not…” he trails off, frowns deeply, and Aramis shifts to kiss the frown away. Porthos sighs out when he draws back. “I like your handwriting.” 

“I have the benefit of having it drilled into me from an early age – an abbé is required to have exceptional penmanship.” He pets his fingers through Porthos’ hair, and smiles at him, gentle and affectionate. “You have only been doing this for a short time – and already you are so much better than most.” 

Porthos sighs out, heavy, shoulders slumping.

Aramis continues to pet his hair. “I’ll start saving up. By your next birthday, I should be able to gift you with a proper quill.” 

“You don’t…” Porthos begins, and then thinks better of it and shakes his head. “Thank you.” 

Aramis kisses him again, slow, mindful, taking his time. Porthos melts into him, searches him out, touches at his cheeks to keep him close. There is comfort in it, there is dedication – and it is still so strange, and so wonderful, that someone could care about him this much, not simply beyond wanting him to be living, but wanting him to be _happy_. To comfort him, to encourage him, to want him to succeed. 

“Thank you,” he says again and feels Aramis smile against his mouth. 

He thinks to himself that, yes – he can let himself want this. He can let himself believe he is worthy of this. 

 

-

 

Aramis steps up against the captain’s doorway and knocks lightly, holding a collection of reports from the day’s patrols. Treville looks up, blinks once, and seems to process Aramis standing there. He straightens up and nods his greeting – so Aramis steps inside, smiling amicably as he strides over and hands over the slips of paper. 

“I was hoping you’d stop by,” Treville says in lieu of greeting. 

Aramis hums out a little. He’d expected as much – perhaps a small part of him knows he’s been avoiding the captain, in general, unable to fully meet his eyes ever since their last major conversation. It feels so long ago now, so far away. 

“How’s your shoulder?” Treville asks. 

“Despite what Porthos might tell you,” Aramis says, cheerful enough, “It’s quite well.” 

He rolls his shoulder to demonstrate, wriggles out his fingers. The pain has passed by now, several days over. Porthos’ concern stems only from Aramis’ tendency to whine for the sake of sympathy when he thinks he can use it to convince Porthos to fetch him some food or his boots or to just not leave the bed with him until mid-morning. The simple things. The downside to the plan is that Porthos tends to hover and then micromanage, not wanting Aramis to do much of anything until satisfied that Aramis is well again. 

Treville nods his satisfaction, begins filing out the papers that Aramis handed him. Aramis stands still, knowing the captain wishes to say more and is merely waiting for an opportunity to collect his words. 

He isn’t disappointed. A moment later, Treville asks, “How have you been, Aramis?” 

Aramis nods a little, swallows down against the sudden rise of emotion he wasn’t expecting – that such a small, simple question could cause that, and yet—

He has grown used to Porthos’ concern, used to Porthos’ understanding. He hardly has to say a word to Porthos now. Porthos understands, sometimes without prompting, just what it is that Aramis needs. But the captain – he wonders if the captain has had anyone, who the captain has to confide in ever since Savoy. It’s been months now, and yet—

“Better,” Aramis settles on. He looks down, bites at his lip. “It’s… better than it was.”

“I’ve seen you with the others,” Treville agrees. “You seem to be in good spirits.”

“I try,” Aramis agrees, wan. 

“It’s good. It’s…” Treville trails off, stares down at his desk before he clears his throat and straightens up his back. “You’re a good musketeer, Aramis. It’d have been a shame to lose you to the church.” 

Aramis laughs a little, something between genuine and a dry heave. “Yes,” he agrees. “I think… I’d have been quite unhappy. I didn’t have the right reasons to return.” He fiddles with his hands, with the buttons of his coat, thinks of the Captain alone in his office with no one to talk to, and then says, “Captain…” 

There must be something in his tone, because Treville shakes his head. “I’m glad you’re better, Aramis.” 

Aramis nods, lets his hands drop. He breathes out. 

“I’ll get there,” he agrees. 

When he leaves a little while later, he looks down the balcony and watches the new recruits train. Athos is there, and Aramis finds his eye drawn to him. There’s a quiet, stilted kind of way he presents himself – the eye draws to him immediately. There is leadership there, perhaps.

There’s a crippling sadness, too. He’s lost someone, or something – that much Aramis can determine. Their grieving is different, and yet Aramis thinks he’d know the look of a sorrowful man any day, for the rest of his life he’d be able to pinpoint that kindred spirit. 

Perhaps that’s why his biting words don’t cut, the way they do for Porthos – who does not understand the concept of self-protection through wit and words. Porthos has always had to protect himself, against so much, set out to prove the rest of the world wrong when he himself knows he’s worthy. For Aramis – possibly for Athos – it’s a different matter when it comes to convincing oneself. 

Aramis watches Athos spar for a while. That haunted look never leaves his eyes. Aramis wonders if it ever will. 

 

-

 

The weeks pass. The recruits train, some leave and some continue on. Porthos keeps an eye on Athos, watches his progress with an assessing eye – still doesn’t trust him, still doesn’t like him much if only because as the days pass, his mood doesn’t seem to improve at all. 

Aramis, on the other hand, makes a point to greet Athos whenever they pass by on their way to their patrols. Athos hardly ever responds beyond maybe the barest of nods. 

Porthos frowns deeply as they exit the garrison. “He keeps doing that.” 

“What?” Aramis asks pleasantly. 

“Ignoring you,” Porthos mutters. “Who’d be stupid enough to do that?”

Aramis gives him an assessing look, and then smiles indulgently, and says, “Can’t you tell? Sometimes, he almost smiles.” 

Porthos gives him a disbelieving look. “Did you get knocked in the head?” 

“No, no, it’s subtle,” Aramis agrees, laughing. “You have to know to look for it.” 

He tries to school his expression into something impassive and unrelenting. Porthos gives him an exacerbated look, which just makes Aramis laugh and have to resume the task of motionlessness. Then, once he’s satisfied, he gives Porthos a dead-eyed stare, and then, subtly, twitches one corner of his lip. It’s hardly a smile, more like the sad shadow of one, but it’s there all the same. Aramis starts grinning. 

“He does that.” 

“What, look stupid?” Porthos mutters. 

Aramis laughs out, eyes lighting up, and bumps his hip to Porthos as they approach the crossroads to their separate patrols. 

“Well,” Aramis sighs out, and smiles up at Porthos. The silence wraps around them like a warm blanket, broken only by the sounds of Paris around them. In this moment, Porthos feels right at home – in the heart of Paris and next to his best friend. 

“Well,” Porthos answers, which just makes Aramis laugh again. 

“Do take care not to get any scars. Take care today,” Aramis says, as he says every day. Something twists up in Porthos’ stomach at the way Aramis’ smile touches his eyes, the smile only widening when Porthos returns the gesture. 

“Always,” Porthos agrees. “Can’t have you worrying your pretty head off those shoulders of yours, after all.” He takes a step, moves a little too close into Aramis’ space, but always does this if only for the small thrill of Aramis’ breath catching, the acknowledgement of danger. He lifts his hand, adjusts Aramis’ hat, if only for the excuse to brush his thumb along a wisp of his hair, pushing it back behind his ear. 

“What a dear friend I have,” Aramis jokes, his smile turning a touch crooked, a touch vulnerable. 

“Oh yeah, that’s me,” Porthos agrees, then adds, more seriously, “You take care, too.” 

“I always do,” Aramis agrees, quiet. He must see something in Porthos’ eyes, because his breath goes a little quieter, rougher, and he lowers his eyes for a moment before looking up at him through his lashes, his chin tipped down. That same look again. 

“Sometimes,” Porthos says. 

“So now that we have that settled… we aren’t going to get into any strange alterations or fights without the other being there, too,” Aramis states, which is a ridiculous thing to ask, considering their line of work, but Porthos finds himself nodding anyway. Aramis chuffs out a small laugh. “Can you imagine saying that to each other the first week we met?” 

“No,” Porthos says, honestly, and Aramis laughs louder. 

Aramis shakes his head, steps into Porthos’ space, and whispers out quiet against the din around them, “I’d kiss you right now, if I could.”

“Scandalous,” Porthos says, dryly, the tone belied by his own grin a moment later. 

Aramis grins back, helpless and happy. He bites his lip and shakes his head. 

Then, quiet, a shade more serious than anything else until this point, he whispers out, “… Please be careful. Please don’t do anything foolish.” 

Something twists up in Porthos’ stomach again. 

Even in these moments – he knows what it is that Aramis is thinking of, knows what it is that haunts him so. 

Porthos nods. 

He isn’t going to tell him that he loves him – because that would somehow make it feel smaller than it is. But the thought comes to him, as a parting. He could mumble it, easy as that, and see what Aramis’ reaction might be as he slips off into the crowd. And yet the moment doesn’t feel weighted enough for it, or too weighted as it is. 

He reaches out and touches his shoulder, newly healed, and traces along the fleur-de-lis for a moment – an indulgence. 

He isn’t going to tell Aramis that he loves him, because it doesn’t seem enough. Not yet. So instead he says, quiet, unsure if Aramis might even hear it over the sound of his heart, “I’m not going to leave you.” 

 

-

 

It’s a simple matter that night, another night of drinking – nothing quite as intense or heavy as his birthday, of course – but it’s been a long week, their commissions were paid out for the month which means their purse strings have a little latitude. This means, of course, that he and Aramis are enjoying one another’s company in the tavern. Their usual tavern barkeeps were short on the preferred drink so now Aramis and Porthos have wandered over a few streets up. In this little tavern, they now sit in a little corner. A few other musketeers mill around – Porthos can see Athos slumped in a corner with a bottle of wine, as if that weren’t the most pathetic thing, and there’s a few other familiar faces throughout. But mostly it is unrecognizable faces, and even some Red Guards, which always sets Porthos’ teeth on edge. 

It might have been a normal, simple night – had they stayed in their own usual tavern. Instead, Aramis heaves out and stands, his hands planted on the table, smiling at Porthos. 

“I’ll get us some more drinks,” he says, cheerful as always, and Porthos nods. He watches Aramis wander throughout the bar, saying hello to some of the other musketeers, pausing at Athos’ table to greet him. Athos dismisses him with a small wave, or it’s a wave hello, Porthos isn’t sure. 

He’s content to just focus on his drink, looking into the fire and letting himself relax. He sits there for a long while, a few minutes passing in relative silence beyond the general din of the crowd. He can hear the lilting sigh of Aramis’ voice across the way, hears the movement his voice turns jagged. 

And then he hears a shout and a crash. 

Porthos isn’t going to say he’s shocked into inaction necessarily –he does stand from his chair as a point of instinct. But then he just stands there for a long moment, mouth open wide as Aramis grabs a man by his collar and slams his head down hard against the barkeep’s counter. He watches in a stunned kind of silence as Aramis shouts out some kind of curse in Spanish, a language he only rarely trots out, and knees the man in his groin. 

This would all be rather shocking on its own, if the man didn’t have friends who were soon springing from their seats, as well, and heading towards Aramis. Porthos is about to shout out, step forward, settle this score – but then it’s _Athos_ of all people who stands, lifts his bottle of wine, and smashes it against one of the assailant’s head. 

After that, all hell breaks loose. Porthos is stunned enough that he can’t think to really react beyond watching in shock as Aramis starts punching anyone who gets too close, without his sword and pistol proper. This doesn’t seem to deter him much as he gropes around uselessly for a moment and then picks up a chair, heaving it over his head and chucking it at the men rounding on him. 

“Hey—” Porthos starts, stepping closer – to fight alongside Aramis and Athos, or to put a stop to it, he isn’t sure. The Red Guards are watching the proceedings very closely – a duel is far different from a brawl, but it’s enough to make Porthos want to throw a chair their way. 

But Aramis is fisting his hands in one of the men’s collars, holding him an inch or two from his face while he seethes out, “Say it again, you worthless bastard – I _dare you._ Say it again.” 

The other patrons to the tavern are either trying to scramble away or look like they might join in, so Porthos takes the opportunity to step up to Aramis, and brush his hand across his shoulder. He says his name, quietly, and then Aramis just shoves the man away towards Athos, who catches him easily, knees him in the stomach, and throws him to the ground. Porthos can’t help but be impressed. 

They work oddly well together, Porthos can’t help but think. Porthos stares as Athos brushes off his shoulder, sniffs at the broken bottle of his wine upon the floor, and then looks up at Aramis and Porthos.

“We best be going,” Athos drawls out, nods a bit towards the other musketeers who were already halfway across the tavern to join the fight. The Red Guards eye the whole thing with a look of trepidation that doesn’t bode well for the musketeers’ reputation. 

Porthos really shouldn’t feel proud of the two of them, and yet here he is. Athos dusts off his hands, strides towards the door, and glances over his shoulder to make sure Porthos and Aramis are behind him. They follow Athos out of the tavern, as he suggests, and make their way back towards the garrison. 

They walk in silence for a long moment before Porthos says, “So are either of you going to tell me what the hell just happened?” 

The two keep silent for a long moment. Aramis’ jaw is clenched and he’s rubbing his hand over his knuckles, busted up and bloody. He looks like he’s considering turning around and killing everyone in that tavern for the satisfaction. 

“Sometimes these things happen,” Athos says, which is hardly an answer at all and Porthos’ mouth twists up in frustration. “I hate to have my drinking interrupted.”

Porthos has no idea if this is a joke or not. He thinks it might be. He gives Athos an appraising stare, which Athos returns levelly. Then he looks over at Aramis, and the concern is clear. He’s concerned about Aramis. Odd for Porthos to think that Athos might give a damn about Aramis – but then, Porthos knew first-hand how Aramis always manages to needle his way into your heart, despite your best efforts. 

“Perhaps I felt the need to punch something,” Athos says. “We both did.” 

Which is, of course, a flat-out lie. Aramis doesn’t punch anyone merely for the fun of it, and he doubts Athos is much the type. He seems the least hot-blooded man he’s ever seen, considering how coolly he floats through the garrison. He’s sounding perfectly level-headed now. Punching someone randomly in a tavern seems more up Porthos’ alley than the other two. 

“Especially those who _deserve_ to be punched,” Aramis says, voice cold as ice and yet bristling with hatred. He bares his teeth for a moment before he clenches his jaw again. 

“We’re lucky the Red Guards didn’t step in,” Porthos says, and really, how come _he’s_ the level-headed one in this situation, still confused and still on edge. He can’t help but let the edge of affection and pride slip into his voice when he says, “I think you slammed that man’s head down hard enough to kill him—”

“He deserved it,” Aramis interrupts. He actually _growls_ which makes Porthos’ stomach twist up into something he’s not ashamed to admit is lust. Because holy damn. 

“… Right,” he says. He falls quiet after that, since Athos and Aramis seem determined to be tight-lipped and ridiculous about the whole enterprise, and the walk back to the garrison passes in a strange, stilted kind of silence.

Well, except Athos veers away at the last moment to enter the usual tavern. 

“I haven’t had nearly enough,” he determines and that is apparently his way of dismissal and farewells because he says nothing more and leaves with only the smallest of nods. Porthos isn’t sure if he’s ever going to understand Athos. 

Aramis is silent and moody until they get back to their room. And then Aramis leans his shoulder against him, tips his head up against him. 

“If you want to fight,” Porthos says, cautiously, “You and I could always spar.” 

Aramis’ face twists up – and then he laughs, bright and quiet. He shakes his head, twists around so he can wrap his arms around Porthos. “I’m fine, you brute,” he says, and then the laughter dies and he cuts himself off. Porthos can’t see his face for a moment but then Aramis looks up at him, frowning. “No. You’re not a brute. Or an animal. Or anything like that. You’re – you’re a good man. The best man I’ve ever known. The best I ever will know.” 

The bottom drops out of his stomach and he nods his understanding – the understanding dawning, slowly, painfully inside of his chest. “… Oh.”

“And I’m alright,” Aramis says, quiet.

Porthos nods, suddenly very quiet and very angry, and also feeling very small.

“… Thanks.” 

“You’re welcome,” Aramis answers, hushed, and then turns his head and tips it back so that Porthos will lean down and kiss him. They kiss slowly for a long moment, not breathing, just staying close to one another. 

Aramis draws back, backs away, pulls Porthos with him – and lies back onto the bed. He smiles up at Porthos as he settles in around him, pressing down to him. 

“You’re everything,” Aramis whispers. 

They lie like that for a long moment – kissing briefly but otherwise just breathing into each other’s space. Then Porthos draws back and toes off his boots and shrugs out of his coat. Before he can reach out to do the same for Aramis, he does it on his own, kicking off his boots and then squirming up so he can drape against Porthos, kissing his neck, then his jaw, and then his mouth. 

“You’re everything,” Aramis says again, quiet, reverential. 

Porthos sighs out, melts into him, and holds him. Neither of them sleep, just find comfort in one another’s arms.

 

-

 

Aramis isn’t sleeping – too agitated, too on edge, but a few hours later, he turns a little in Porthos’ arms and looks up at him. Porthos blinks his eyes open – not sleeping either, Aramis knew it from the sound of his breathing – and offers him a small smile. 

Aramis leans in and kisses his nose. 

Porthos is quiet for a long moment, just looking at him. Then he lifts his hand and touches Aramis’ cheek. Just slides the backs of his fingertips along the curve of his jaw, his knuckles skimming across his jaw. 

“You know…” Porthos starts. Then his voice breaks, and he goes quiet for a long moment. 

Aramis isn’t breathing. He waits. 

“Fuck it,” Porthos whispers with a slightly hysterical little laugh, looks up at him, fans his thumb out across his cheekbone. He looks at him for a long moment. And then he says, “I love you.” 

Just months ago, just weeks ago, the idea of hearing these words would have terrified him. Hearing them, he’d have recoiled, he’d have been paralyzed. He’s heard the words plenty of times to know that those saying it didn’t mean it, that they would always just leave him in the end. 

But Porthos cares for him. Porthos _loves_ him. Somehow, the idea isn’t terrifying – somehow, if only because, deep down, Aramis already knew. Putting another word to that care didn’t scare him anymore. 

He licks his lips, hiccups a little laugh. “Porthos…”

Porthos nods a little. He’s tensed. He’s waiting. 

Aramis closes his eyes and breathes out, laughs again despite himself. He says, “I don’t… know if I can ever be over what happened. But I think that I – that maybe someday I’ll be alright.” 

Porthos’ expression relaxes and he nods. His hand moves back to brush over his hair. Aramis lifts his hand, touches at Porthos’ face – traces over his scar, his eyebrow, the jut of his bottom lip, the bristle of his beard. 

“You must know that I – I wouldn’t have made it without you.”

Porthos shakes his head. “You’d have gotten there eventually.”

“No,” Aramis says forcefully. “I wouldn’t. If you hadn’t been here, Porthos – I _wouldn’t_.” 

Porthos blinks at him once, and then touches his cheeks, slides his hands up to his hair and pulls him in closer. He kisses his forehead. “I’m here. Always will be. I won’t leave you.” 

Aramis wishes he could truly make that promise. He clenches his hands in Porthos’ shirt and thinks, wildly, that he will do everything he can to make sure that Porthos lives forever. 

“And – ” Aramis chokes back another breath, something between a laugh and a sob, shaking his head. “Sorry – me too. I should have – I should have said that first. Of course I love you, too.” 

 

-

 

The weeks pass as they do. Each day, Porthos wakes to Aramis beside him, smiling at him. He knows there will be a time when he does not need to sleep in the same bed as him every night, to usher away the nightmares. But there is comfort in waking to find him. There is comfort in seeing him smile at him in greeting, opening his eyes and facing a day that isn’t quite so scary anymore. 

He tries to remember what it was like to be without Aramis’ friendship. He can remember it, but it feels so distant now. The kind of man he’s becoming – he likes who that man is. Aramis, of course, would say that Porthos has always been this man, unwilling and unable to recognize the influence he has. 

But then, Porthos has a hard time imagining that he could have any influence on Aramis, as well. When Aramis says he’s better in no small part thanks to Porthos, he thinks that Aramis underestimates his own abilities. His own strength.

But it’s just as well. If given the chance, Porthos would spend the rest of his life repeating it until Aramis believes it – until Aramis believes that he is someone worthwhile, someone worth knowing and loving.

The day is drawing to a close and Aramis keeps looking over towards where Athos is slumped over the table. He’s been doing that a lot lately. Whenever they close out the night with a drink rather than reading lessons, they often find Athos in the corner, slumped into his drink. Porthos wonders if he’s ever spent a night away from the tavern, or if Athos has found his niche here since joining the regiment. He looks exhausted, wine-heavy and sleep-deprived, his shoulders slung around his ears, his pauldron immaculate upon his shoulder, his entire uniform in order – just his face twisted up in disarray. Porthos isn’t quite sure how Athos manages that – to look presentable, composed, impassive, and yet also look like he’s about to fall apart. 

“I’ll start to get jealous if you keep looking at him like that,” Porthos says, breaking the comfortable silence between the two of them.

Aramis laughs. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you jealous about anything.”

“Maybe I should stare at him and see how you do,” Porthos says with a roll of his eyes, and then a large grin to indicate his tease. Aramis’ mouth twitches as he turns to give Porthos his full attention, drumming his fingertips across the table. 

“I’m sure that if I were ever to get jealous, which I don’t,” Aramis drawls out, “you’d find a way to make it up to me for straying.” His eyes are bright in the firelight in the tavern, his smile wide and heartfelt. “Wouldn’t you?”

The joke, of course, is that between the two of them, Aramis has the forceful jealousy on par with a score of scorned lovers. Of course, neither of them know that just yet – that’s not for some time to come, not until a beautiful woman catches Porthos’ eye for the first time joining the musketeers – about five months from this moment – and makes his smile turn sloppy. But when that moment comes, Aramis’ jealousy will burn hotter than any fire. In this moment, it is merely a joke, and one that Porthos laughs about – unused to the concept that someone could value him enough to see fit to be jealous. 

“Of course I would,” he teases. “Show you every which way why you’re my favorite.” 

“How charming,” Aramis says with a grin, and then turns his head to look back over towards where Athos remains slumped. 

It’s been a busy few weeks. All the new recruits are on full rotation, and neither Porthos nor Aramis have gotten the chance to work with Athos. It’s only a matter of time – it’s clear the captain is impressed with Athos, and it won’t be long before he finds himself on the more high profile patrols, along with both Aramis and Porthos. 

It’s been a busy few weeks for the both of them, as well. Aramis is making better progress. He smiles more easily. His hair falls evenly, framing his handsome face so he can smile in greetings. His hands no longer shake in the moments when he must draw his pistol. He and Porthos have been able to work more patrols together, as well. 

Aramis watches Athos and frowns thoughtfully. Porthos tries not to think about it much at all, taking a long drink from his cup until he’s drained away the last dredges of wine. The night is wearing on. 

“We should head back,” he offers and Aramis nods. 

“We should make sure he’s alright first,” he says, gesturing over towards where Athos sits. Athos’ head is lulling, something that Porthos has never seen him do before. 

He isn’t sure what to make of Athos. It’s true he did help Aramis defend himself the last time a tavern brawl broke out, but his general attitude leaves him feeling a little uncertain about where he stands. Aramis claims he’s just a dry wit kind of person, but Porthos isn’t so sure. He can at least acknowledge the tired drag of his bones, the way his eyes remain haunted upon the table, the way he fists and twists his fingers around a locket hanging from his neck. Desolation. He remembers the way Aramis looked around the garrison that first night he returned – the look is not dissimilar. It is not the same, but it is close enough that Porthos can understand why it is that Aramis keeps approaching him, keeps greeting him, keeps caring. 

“He drank too much,” Porthos says. He knows that look well – the sight of a man drowning his sorrows in drink because it’s all he can handle. He saw enough men wasting away from hopelessness in the Court to ever forget the look. 

Some kind of twisted up grudge eases in his chest, at least a little. He’s watching a man in sorrow, not indifference. 

Porthos heaves out a sigh but nods. “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s go get him.”

“Go away,” Athos mumbles into his glass once Porthos and Aramis approach, however. And any good feeling that Porthos might have felt a moment ago shrivels up immediately in the face of his frustrations. Porthos bristles up – of course he does, shifting a bit as if to block Aramis from view. Aramis pats his shoulder. But Porthos puffs up before Athos.

“We wanted to see if you’re alright,” Aramis says, gently, as if he isn’t perturbed by Athos’ general attitude – which, alright, he isn’t, and he certainly dealt with worse in the beginning of his friendship with Porthos. 

“You’ve satisfied yourself,” Athos drawls out, a surprising feat given that there aren’t any slurs to his words. His eyes are heavy-set, though, and bloodshot upon closer inspection. “You may leave contented of your good will.” 

Porthos makes a frustrated sound, bites back a hateful word – soothed only by the small look Aramis gives him, the light little smile. 

“It would be against our very code to ignore you, my friend,” Aramis says.

Athos gives them both a shrewd look. He sways in his seat, lifts a hand to twist around the chain around his neck, tugging against it so that it digs against the back of his neck. He frowns deeply, his face heavy-set and drunken. When he sways again, Porthos lifts his hand against his shoulder and keeps him in place. Athos doesn’t lean away or into the touch, just stoically accepts its presence. 

“Who has time for a code at this hour?” Athos asks, and Porthos can’t help but snort. So perhaps he understands what Aramis meant by dry wit. 

Aramis sighs out. “You are a difficult man to befriend, Athos.” 

Athos twists his head up to look at them both, peering at them as if for the first time. His hand drops from the locket and flattens out against the table. And then he does shy away from Porthos’ touch upon his shoulder, curls up and slumps into himself. 

“I have no need of this,” Athos says, and this time his words do slur and he sways again despite Porthos’ steadying hand. “Be gone from me.” 

Porthos’ feelings about Athos aside, he’s not about to leave now that he’s seen him like this. Glancing at Aramis, he knows that he is of the same mind. 

Aramis gestures to where Athos is slumped into himself, not saying a word. He lifts his eyebrows at Porthos and says, “Come on, we should carry him home.”

Porthos heaves a sigh, reaches down, and hooks onto one of Athos’ arms. Athos lets out a quiet, pathetic little mutter – as if he’ll try to shrug away from the attentions. Porthos proves too strong, however, hauling Athos to his feet and supporting him with an arm wrapped around his side. Athos stumbles against his feet and then just flops up against Porthos’ chest for a moment, his head spinning from the sudden shift in equilibrium.

“It is a wonder you can drink this much,” Aramis says to himself, eyeing the empty bottles littering the table. And then he watches Porthos shift Athos in his arm, supporting him up like it’s easy. Athos hardly weighs a thing. “So strong,” Aramis coos, “So very strong, Porthos.”

Now is not the time to flirt with Aramis, really, but he can’t help but give him a small, secretive little smile. Aramis’ praise certainly makes Porthos feel slightly better about the whole situation, and he starts half-dragging, half-carrying Athos towards the exit to the bar. Athos makes a lackluster grab for his wine but it’s already out of his reach. Aramis follows behind the two of them before they move out into the open air beyond the tavern’s door. Porthos suspects that given Athos’ state of inebriation, he might have to return later in order to pay off the tab for him. 

“What are you doing always drinking this much, anyway,” Porthos mutters to Athos, not really expecting him to answer. Aramis reaches out to grasp Athos’ other arm, to ease some of the burden off of Porthos. They shimmy a little in the street until they can commandeer Athos’ stumbling into something a little more forthcoming, making their way down the street slowly but surely. 

“Two months ago…” Athos begins, stops, and then ducks his head and shakes his head. Porthos pauses, afraid that Athos is going to vomit. But a moment later, Athos looks up – and he seems a little more lucid, his eyes glassy but looking up at Porthos. And then he slumps forward and leans against him. Which makes walking all the more difficult. 

“It’s alright,” Aramis offers, and Athos shakes his head. 

“There was a woman,” Athos slurs out against Porthos’ chest. His voice is quiet, heartbroken – wretched, reliving something so recent. “And she died.” 

Porthos and Aramis exchange a look. Aramis’ hold on Athos tightens. 

Years from now, Aramis and Porthos will learn the true extent of Athos’ past, the reason for his melancholy and his morning. It’ll be, of course, thanks to d’Artagnan’s friendship and influence that the moment will arrive – but once it does, they will both think back to this moment, out in the streets of Paris and helping a drunk and heartbroken man back to his room, and they will understand fully what it is Athos suffered for. But that is not for many years to come. 

Tonight, instead, they have no idea what to say. 

“It’s alright,” Aramis says, and it is a platitude, hollow – can tell by his expression that he’s trying to think of something better, trying to pull on what Porthos told him in the wake of his own tragedy, and comes up short on the proper things to say. 

So Porthos says, “Sorry.” 

Athos says nothing, his mouth screwing up – he looks as if he might say more, and then thinks better of it. He slumps into himself. “You should have left me to my drink.” 

Aramis’ expression fractures a little, crippling at the corners. His eyes dim a little at the thought of it and Porthos knows what he’s thinking. He reaches out behind Athos’ shoulders and grasps Aramis’ arm, squeezing gently. 

Aramis looks up at him, his smile bird-fragile. 

“Come on,” Porthos mutters. 

They stumble a few steps when Athos sways between them, and Aramis nearly loses his grip and sends Athos toppling into the mud for his troubles. Aramis bubbles out a helpless little laugh and says, “I thought this would be easier.” 

“I could just carry him,” Porthos offers. 

“I don’t know if hauling him up will be the best right now…” Aramis begins, and the light hasn’t returned to his eyes, still dim with memories he’s fighting against. He clears his throat, blinks his eyes a few times – and then reaches out and rubs Athos’ back. “Do you want us to carry you?”

“No,” Athos says, rather vehement and haughty for someone stumbling along down the streets of Paris and reeking of alcohol. 

“We could leave him here,” Porthos says and is joking, grins at Aramis to demonstrate he isn’t serious. Aramis snorts. 

“That’s hardly kind,” he teases. 

“Who says I’m kind?” Porthos answers back.

“I do,” Aramis says, without hesitation. “You are a kind man, the kindest I’ve ever known.” 

Athos grunts between them, then moans out and curls into himself. Aramis and Porthos direct him towards a side-wall, in case he does vomit. Athos stays leaning his forehead against the wall for a long moment, heaving out heavy breaths but otherwise making no sign of distress. Aramis leans against the wall, reaching out a hand to rub Athos’ back. Porthos keeps his hands on Athos, to keep him upright. 

“It’ll be shocking if he can walk tomorrow,” Aramis remarks. 

Athos shakes his head and moans out again.

Porthos snorts. “He does this every night, I bet. Maybe not _this_ bad, but he’ll be alright.” 

“Are you betting me, Monsieur?” Aramis asks. 

Porthos shrugs. “I don’t know. What do I get if I win?”

“I can think of one or two things…” Aramis starts. 

Athos dry-heaves between them, and Aramis resumes rubbing his back. Athos leans forward further, knocks his head rather unkindly against the wall. 

“Alright,” Porthos interrupts, dragging him back. “None of that.” 

“Come on,” Aramis says, smiling up at Porthos – his expression soft, full of longing and love. He doesn’t have to hide the way he looks at him. He looks across Athos’ shoulder just so he can smile warmly at Porthos. “Let’s go. Together.”

Porthos’ expression lightens and he almost laughs. “Yeah. Let’s go.” 

Weeks from now, months from now, years from now, Athos will be one that Porthos trusts instinctively, never doubts his intentions. Athos will be one that Aramis never fails to needle but follows willingly, never doubts his abilities. He will become a fixture to them, a cornerstone in both their lives. Just months from now, they will not be able to understand what it was like to be without his friendship. 

But that is not until a little while to come. 

Tonight, they hook their arms around Athos, to keep him upright and usher him along. Together, the three of them walk back to the garrison—

Or, rather, the two of them walk back while one stumbles between them. 

 

-

 

Aramis has never really kissed anyone goodbye before. Not really. Not in this way. Not in the way of kissing someone good luck with the hope that they’ll come back. His goodbyes – the forever kind of goodbyes – have always been permanent, unpredictable, and unknown until that moment. Isabelle, Marsac—

He knows he’ll see Porthos again, soon enough. Just because he goes on a mission without him doesn’t mean it’s the last. He always comes back. He says he’ll always come back – and even if it’s foolish, even if it’s a promise that can’t be kept, Aramis wants to believe it. More than anything, no matter how far away Porthos goes, or where Aramis goes, he wants to believe they were never really meant to say goodbye. 

“We’ll die together or not at all,” Aramis will tell Porthos, years later, and Porthos will laugh and agree. 

Today, Porthos dresses down for a two week mission in the south, and it doesn’t matter what the mission is, how capable Porthos is, this will always cause him anxiety, it will always hurt for Porthos to be away from him, to be too close to _there_. He helps Porthos dress, tucks into his space and kisses him. Porthos starts to speak and Aramis tells him to shush, pushes Porthos down, climbs on top of him, and does his best to give him incentive to return. He doesn’t want him to leave, but understands these things are as they are. 

Porthos’ hands are on his waist, his cheek, his hair. He’s gentle in a way that Aramis knows people will never associate with him, but Aramis has come to know and cherish. They kiss goodbye and it feels like Aramis is falling without end, falling further and further, the ground gone from his feet and his heart in his throat. 

Outside their room, Porthos is loud and shouting, goading Lacan when he catches his eye, clapping Dupont on the shoulder. He is loud and laughing. There is nothing gentle about the way he shoves and bumps shoulders, easy and fluid in his movements, graceful. He watches Porthos go with the others, waves his hand, feeling foolish for it – but smiling against the doubt in his mind, the doubt that says Porthos won’t come back.

Two weeks later he will, of course. Porthos always comes back. 

 

-

 

Sometimes, Porthos will remember, helplessly, that he’s known Aramis’ death first-hand. 

They hadn’t even known each other then – not really, and that had been months ago. The thought occurs him, sometimes, when he is not focusing on Aramis, either the good or the bad. The thought will come to him, unrestrained – you know what it’s like to have him die without you. 

And he’d cared so much then. He hadn’t even known him and the hit had struck deep. To lose Aramis now—

He doesn’t often dwell on it. Porthos does not process his grief, his worry, the same way that Aramis does. The promise of coming back safe is enough to satisfy Porthos – he knows now, intimately, never to believe Aramis dead until he sees it for himself. He knows it isn’t and cannot be the same for Aramis.

Which is why, at the start of each morning, he kisses him heavy with the promise of more to come, lets them part ways with the promise that he’ll come back – every time, he’ll come back. 

And then the thought of Aramis’ death comes to him – a stupid thing to fixate on. A pointless thing. It’s something that never happened, does no one any good to remember. A terrible memory and not even a real memory – all those boots laid out beneath the sheets, wheeled into the garrison on a cart – that crippling relief when Aramis was not amongst them, but very well could have been. 

Aramis doesn’t smile the same anymore. There is lightness to his smile, but not as before. Now, it is weighed down, ever so slightly. His eyes are just the tiniest bit dimmer. But he is no less beautiful, he is no less worthwhile. 

Aramis looks at him, gentled and warm, whenever he catches Porthos watching him with an undoubtedly strained expression.

Tonight, he offers him the knife, brushes his hair back behind his ears and tilts his head back. The moon is hanging low in the window, and he glows a little as he looks up at Porthos. He settles down into the chair, gets himself situated, and then looks up at Porthos. “Hello, handsome.”

“And hello to you, too,” Porthos says with a quiet laugh.

Aramis smiles. Then he closes his eyes and says, “I think I like it short.”

So Porthos cuts it for him. He slices through the hair, evens it out, cuts it to the length Aramis indicates. It fluffs up against his fingertips, light and airy. Lighter. Freer. He ducks his head and kisses the scar at his temple, and Aramis sighs out a soft, gentled sound – relief, and peace. 

“I’m going to be alright,” Aramis decides, quietly.

Porthos nods. Trims his hair up so it isn’t uneven, so it frames his face, so he can see his smile.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, you can reach me at my [tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/).


End file.
